Off The Rails
by MsBarrows
Summary: Sam Wilson finds himself being recruited at gunpoint to assist in the rescue of the Winter Soldier from HYDRA's hands, by the last person he'd ever have imagined having any interest in doing so: Brock Rumlow. Past Brock/Bucky. Warnings for homophobic language and violence. Written for the Avengers Reverse Big Bang to accompany art by LePeru. See profile for link to the artwork.
1. Recruitment

"You sure you'll be fine?" Sam asked. "I could still come with."

"No, you have things to do here," Steve said. "I'll only be gone for a few days. Besides, Maria is there – I doubt even Stark can get me into any real trouble on her watch."

"Good point," Sam said, a little reluctantly. "But you be sure and call me if something comes up and you need me after all. There isn't anything I'm doing in wrapping up things here that's so important that I can't give you a hand if you end up needing one."

Steve smiled at him. "I will. I promise."

"Good. You do that. Look after yourself properly while you're away, all right?"

"Sam, it's only three or four days."

"I know, but I worry about you. You have this bad habit of throwing yourself in the path of danger, not to mention off of tall objects. I won't be around to catch you in New York."

Steve gave him an amused look. "I'm sure Stark would be glad to do so if it becomes necessary. I'll be fine. Promise."

"You keep saying that, but I'll believe it when I see you back here safe and sound and ready to set out on your friend's trail."

"Which is something Stark can help me with, so... the sooner I get to New York, the sooner we can set out."

Sam nodded, and Steve turned away, climbing onto his bike and lifting a hand in farewell before driving off. Sam watched until he was out of sight, then headed indoors to grab a few things he needed before heading down to the VA. He had a few loose ends to take care of there, before he and Steve set out in search of Bucky.

While part of him regretted giving up his job here, even if in theory it was only temporarily... most of him was looking forward to the search. It was good to be back in the game again, even if it wasn't the game he'd started out in.

* * *

There was a bike courier sitting on the stairs of Sam's front porch when he got home later that day, reading something on a tablet, a large parcel resting between her feet. She looked up at his approach, then slipped her tablet into a belt pouch and rose to her feet. "Mr Sam Wilson?" she said. "Extra-special delivery for you."

"It must be, for you to be willing to sit around waiting to deliver it," he said.

She grinned. "I'm being very well paid to sit around until you show up and take delivery," she said. "Like a four figure tip if I get it into your hands today."

"A four fi... wow. Who the hell is spending that sort of money on me?"

"Well, it's a Stark Industries originating address, so I could take a guess," she said. "Anyway, I just need you to show me some ID – though you certainly match the picture supplied – and then sign here."

Sam shook his head and took out his wallet. "When did this become my life," he muttered to himself, then did as she'd asked.

"Thanks!" she said cheerfully as she put her bike helmet back on. "Have a great day, Mr Wilson – you and whomever your benefactor is have already made mine."

He watched her hop on her bike and cycle away, then bent down to pick up the bulky-looking parcel. It was lighter than he'd have expected something that size to be, but of an oddly familiar weight. He paused for a moment, feeling a surge of anticipatory excitement, then hurried indoors, dropping his things on the nearest surfaces and hurrying into the kitchen in search of a knife or scissors to cut through the packing tape.

A few minutes later, he was sliding a familiar-looking piece of equipment out of its protective foam packaging, whistling appreciatively as he took in the streamlined shape of it; an upgraded model of his old EXO-7 wings. EXO-9, according to the markings on the packaging material; the hardshell casing itself was unmarked.

There was a small but bulky envelope tucked in behind the webbing on one of the front straps, 'Sam Wilson' scrawled on it in messy handwriting. He opened that first, raising his eyebrows as he saw that it was a very compact hard-shell electronic device of some sort, about the size of a USB key or a tube of lipstick, with a small grill in one end and a red button at the other. Mentally he shrugged, and then pressed the button.

"Hello Sam Wilson," Tony Stark's very recognizable voice spoke from the device. "Consider this your invitation to join the Avengers. I'll be sending you a care package of paperwork and a few additional toys with Cap after he visits me in New York, but the wings are yours whether or not you decide to sign up for our elite boy band of superheroes. Well, mostly boy band, both Natasha and Pepper would kick my ass if I didn't acknowledge that we have female members. And I'm sure Hill would be happy to assist. Anyway, if you're going to hang out with Cap you'll need your wings, so, consider them a bribe or a gift or a signing bonus, I don't care, just keep 'em and make good use of them. All Stark Industries locations have received a standing order to assist you with repair or replacement if it becomes necessary, though the once-a-year refuelling of the Arc reactor I'm powering these babies with can only be done by yours truly. Actually they'll probably run for more than a year, just better to have the core replaced before you find yourself running out of power at a critical moment in flight. Voice of painful and rather brown-pants-inducing experience on that, okay? Looking forward to meeting you face-to-face some time. Ciao!"

The device popped in half along a previously unnoticed seam, revealing two small earbuds and a rolled up bit of paper. Unrolling it revealed 'comm link and backup comm link' scrawled on the paper in the same messy handwriting as had been on the envelope.

"Huh," Sam said, a little impressed. He held the earbuds in the palm of his hand for a moment, then slipped them both into one of the utility pouches on the wings' harness. Digging around in the packaging the wings had come in turned up a technical manual for them. He grabbed a jug of orange juice out of the fridge, and returned to the living room to settle down in his favourite chair to read over the manual and familiarize himself with any differences there were between these wings and his previous set. Stark being Stark, he felt confident in thinking that there was likely to be a lot more differences than just them now being arc reactor powered.

* * *

Sam settled the wing pack in the front seat, strapping it in place with the seat belt like the precious baby it was, then walked around the front of the car and settled into the driver's seat. He needed someplace where he could try out the wings in privacy, without setting off half the radar in the Washington area. Luckily he still had contacts in the air force, and a few phone calls the night before had gained him access this morning to a decommissioned airfield a little over an hour's drive away, with the additional benefit that his use of the airspace over it wouldn't raise any alarms; unidentified objects in the sky tended to draw a harsh reaction from local air defence given events of the last fifteen years or so.

There was a lone guard at the small gatehouse beside the locked entrance to the property, who checked his ID and then opened up the gates for him. "Mind if I watch?" the guard asked.

"Aren't you supposed to stay in the gatehouse?" Sam asked.

"Leave it to do rounds a few times a day, make sure no one's come in through the fence somewhere and messed around any," the guard said, and pulled a tablet from one pocket, thumbing through a menu and then holding it up so Sam could see the screen; a security camera view of the front gate. "There's an app for watching the gate while I'm away, if anyone actually shows up I can be back here in a couple of minutes." He shrugged. "Place barely needs a guard. Get maybe one visitor every couple of months; it's not like there's anything more important here than a few mostly empty buildings and a lot of decaying asphalt."

"Damn, things sure have changed since I was in," Sam said, shaking his head bemusedly. "Sure, you can watch as long as it's not interfering with your own duties."

"Awesome," the guy said, smiling.

Sam drove in and parked near the airstrip, then got out the wings, checking them over carefully before strapping them on. He pulled on his goggles, shook himself out and gave the straps a final tug to make sure everything was settled and secure, then glanced around. He could see the guard in the distance, making his rounds in a little golf-cart sized vehicle, some sort of miniaturized jeep. He grinned and shook his head, crouched, and then leapt for the sky, wings snapping to full spread and repulsors – smaller and more powerful than the tiny jets his old wings had utilized for lift – kicking in to launch him upwards.

He aimed for air space first of all, climbing pretty much straight upwards for a couple of minutes before levelling off, then began a careful series of exercises, from simple gliding circles to twisting swooping dives as he tested the capabilities of the new wings, whooping in exhilaration at how fluidly they reacted. He'd loved his old wings, known them and their capabilities like the back of his hand... these were better. They felt were more like a part of him than a separate tool, an extension to his physical body instead of a burden attached to it. The exhilaration didn't end, not until after he'd touched down again over half an hour later, the wings smoothly retracting into their hardshell casing.

The guard was sitting in his mini Jeep nearby, eating a sandwich. "That looked damned fun," he said, smiling.

"It was," Sam agreed, grinning widely at him. "It most surely was." He hated taking the pack back off, giving it another inspection before putting it away in the car again. He grabbed a bottle of Gatorade out of the console, twisting off the cap and chugging back half of it. "Warm day for it though."

The guard nodded, already folding up the waxed paper from his sandwich, clearly preparing to leave. "Usually is out here. I better get back to the gate. Thanks for letting me watch."

Sam nodded. "No problem. I'll be right behind you," he said, leaning back against the side of his car and lifting his bottle. "Soon as I've finished this."

The guard nodded. "Don't hurry on my account," he said, and drove off, back in the direction of the gates.

Sam stayed where he was, finishing his drink and waiting for himself to relax again, the post-flight high slowly giving way to a certain amount of tiredness as the adrenaline faded. It'd be good to get back home again, he thought. Shower and change, get supper in the oven, do post-flight maintenance on the wings. Maybe hit the sack early tonight; he'd been running short on sleep ever since Steve and Natasha had shown up at his place. Probably as good a time as any to erase a little of that sleep debt. Especially since he'd likely be running short again as soon as Steve got back from New York.

He tossed the now-empty bottle into the passenger-side wheel well, and headed out, raising a hand in farewell to the guard as the man waved him on through the gate.

* * *

He'd dropped his things in the living room, and was headed to the kitchen before he realized that there was something off about his house. He couldn't have said what was out of place – a sound or the lack of one, something moved a little from where it had been when he'd left the place earlier that day, or what – but as he walked into the kitchen he was suddenly certain that someone had been here while he was gone. Might even still be here.

Sam didn't break step, just dropped his empty bottles into the recycling bin and opened the fridge door, taking out a few things and setting them on the counter, ears straining for any whisper of sound.

A smell, he realized, that was what it was. Antiseptic cream, hospital soap, _something_ medicinal or antibacterial in nature... he was reaching for the knife block when a red dot appeared on the back of his hand.

"Freeze," someone said, male, voice gravelly. "Hands above your head. _Slowly_."

"All right," he said, as calmly as he could manage, and did as told, moving very slowly indeed as the red dot vanished, doubtless pointing somewhere rather more vital now.

"Turn around."

His first thought on catching sight of the man holding a gun on him was that he'd seen hamburger that didn't look as chewed up, the man's face and arms were a mass of fading bruises overlaid with what had to be hundreds of scabs, from tiny ones not much worse than a bug-bite in size to a few pretty serious cuts, the worst stitched closed. Then he looked at the features, not the injuries, and recognized who it was; someone he'd only met a couple of times and that briefly, but who'd made a pretty strong impression in both cases. "Rumlow."

Rumlow grinned briefly at him, more a baring of teeth than any expression of amusement. "Wilson."

"Here to try and kill me again? Or Steve? He's not here, you know," Sam said, mind racing as he tried to think of any way to escape, watched for any opening the other man might inadvertently give him.

"I'm not here to kill either of you," Rumlow grated out. "Tempting as the thought might be, I have other priorities right now."

Sam raised his eyebrows a little. "Priorities? What sort of priorities? Your side _lost_, you realize. Sure, there's still some of you left, like any nest of cockroaches... but Hydra is _done_ as a major player. Everyone knows about you now, everyone is looking out for you and wiping you out."

"Fuck Hydra," Rumlow said. "You're right, they're pretty much finished now; oh, give it a decade or two, people will forget and they'll spring back up again, as strong as ever, but for now? Only the true believers will be sticking it out, and I sure as hell am not one of them."

Sam snorted. "You sure sounded like one back at the Triskelion."

Rumlow shrugged, just slightly. "I believed enough. But I'm also enough of a realist to accept that their day is over for now. And there's a debt I owe... something I need to repay."

"A debt? To who? Captain Rogers?"

"Fuck him too. No, not to Captain my-shit-don't-stink Rogers. Someone else. But much as I hate to admit it, I need help; your help, or the Captain's help, it doesn't matter."

"And you think pointing a gun at my face will convince me to help you?" Sam asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"No, the gun will make you listen long enough to agree to help me despite how much you might happen to hate my guts," Rumlow said. "It's the Soldier. I know where he is, and I mean to rescue him."

Sam just stared at him, silently, stunned. "The Winter Soldier," he finally said. "You plan to rescue him. _Why_."

"I told you – I owe him. A debt of honour. I'll go after him alone if I have to – but there's a much better chance of success with help. Your help."

Sam stared at him a moment longer, then shook his head in disbelief, dropping his hands and turning his back to lean heavily on the edge of the counter, ignoring the gun still pointed at him. "Fuck. When did this become my _life!?_"

"Getting involved with the super-powered has a tendency to send your life off the rails."

"Voice of experience?" Sam asked, turning his head to look over his shoulder at Rumlow.

"Yup. You on board to at least hear me out now?"

"Does it mean you'll stop pointing that thing at me? In which case, hell yeah."

"Good," Rumlow said, lowering the gun, flicking the safety back on before tucking it away in one of the pockets of the loose cargo pants he was wearing.

Sam eyed him thoughtfully a moment, then opened the fridge door again. "I was about to make some food. As much as I don't particularly want you as a dinner guest, I suppose I might as well make enough to feed you too. Beer?"

Rumlow gave a short snort of laughter. "Sure, why not," he said, and caught the bottle Sam tossed his way.

Sam cracked open a bottle for himself, thinking that it was possibly a bad sign that cooking dinner for a man here to abduct-slash-recruit him at gunpoint was far from the weirdest thing that had happened to him since Captain America lapped him on the Mall.

* * *

Sam set down the large platter of loaded chicken caesar salad in the middle of the table, sliding a soup plate, knife and fork over to where Rumlow sat at one side of it before seating himself at the other. The other man remained silent as they each served themselves a generous helping of salad, and the garlic bread Sam had made to go with it.

Sam speared up some of the salad, then gestured with the laden fork at Rumlow's injuries. "Surprised to see you up and around, didn't think you'd survived having a helicarrier and half a building dropped on you."

"I was lucky, for a given value of luck – ended up in a pocket in the debris, shielded by some fallen beams and a pile of mangled furniture. Lots of cuts and bruises, some cracked ribs. Rescue dog sniffed me out before things got too bad."

"Dehydration?"

"A little."

"Huh. Hospital?"

"Briefly. Broke out as soon as I could, before they put a real guard on me."

"So why my help? Or Steve's, for that matter. You know neither of us are likely to trust you."

"I don't need your trust, just your assistance. Rogers would help because of who the Winter Soldier was. You'll do it because the Captain would want you to. And because it's your job, isn't it... helping soldiers when they come back home."

"He's been a long, _long_ time away from home."

"Not as long as some people think. He's been in the wind here in the US before, up in New York. Brooklyn, in fact."


	2. Reminiscence

So this is how he was going to die, Brock thought, curling up tighter, unable to keep back a yelp as the toes of a steel-capped boot thudded into his side again, sending up a bright flare of pain. Beaten to death in an alley by a pack of drunken homophobic skinhead fuckwits, all because he'd made the mistake of hitting on someone in a bar. Not even one of them – he wasn't that stupid – but one of them had _noticed_, and they'd been drunk enough to decide that it was an excellent idea to follow him away from the bar later and 'teach the little faggot a lesson'.

He let out another cry of pain as someone stomped on his ankle, his heavy Doc Martens offering him some protection from the impact but not enough, then screamed as they stomped again, something cracking audibly. Caught up in his own pain, he didn't realize someone else had joined the fight, not until one of the skinheads screamed shrilly and the group of them started yelling and swearing, sounding panicked.

Brock uncurled a little, lifting his head enough to see a dark-clad figure whirling around, a length of something dull-coloured in one hand – waste wood or a bit of pipe maybe – which thudded solidly into the leather jacketed side of one of them, driving a whoop of pain from him. One of them produced a knife from somewhere, and for a moment Brock thought he was going to see the man killed right in front of him, but then the knife was in one of his hands instead and the punk who'd produced it was bleeding from a slashed palm and screaming. The group of them broke and ran after that, apparently deciding it was smarter to run away than to continue fighting. The man stilled, watching them flee, then pocketed the knife and dropped the thing he'd been using as a club to the group. Pipe, by the metallic sound it made hitting the pitted asphalt. He turned to look down at Brock.

Homeless dude, was the first thing Brock thought; the guy had long unkempt hair, a several day's growth of stubble, and his skin was dark with grime. He stank, bad enough to be noticeable over the fermenting garbage smell of the alleyway itself, though only of sour unwashed body, not the stinks Brock knew to associate with alcoholics or drug users, or those so far gone that they soiled themselves without caring. Though there was something _off_ about the way he stared back at Brock, something unsettling in his gaze.

The man stepped closer and crouched down, frowning, touching the fingertips of his left hand – gloved, Brock noticed, though the right hand wasn't – to the ground to brace himself, his other hand moving to hover near Brock's face, just shy of touching him. Brock couldn't help flinching away, knowing by the throbbing ache on that side that his cheek was badly bruised, possible even cracked, and that being touched would hurt.

"Thanks, man," he said, and tried to roll over and get up, hissing in pain at the way that made his ankle and ribs feel. The look in the man's eyes sharpened, and he shifted his attention from Brock's face to his torso, reaching out to flip back his coat and prod cautiously at Brock's side, frowning in apparent concern. "Ribs might be cracked," Brock said, and the man nodded, then shifted position to check Brock's ankle. Brock couldn't keep back a yelp at the pain that caused. The man flinched back at the sound, then suddenly looked up, as tense and wary as one of the feral cats that inhabited the alleyways.

Brock heard it a second later – distant sirens. Someone must have called the police. "Fuck," he said. In his experience to date the police were less than helpful; despite him being the victim in this case, if they picked him up it would be _him_ that ended up in trouble, as soon as they looked up his record. The man flinched at the word, abruptly standing up and turning to leave.

"Wait!" Brock called, reaching a hand toward him, and was surprised when he actually stopped, turning to look back at Brock, gaze flicking worriedly toward the alley entrance. "Don't leave me here for the police. _Please_."

The man frowned, almost a scowl, then stepped back over, bending down and scooping up Brock into his arms like a damsel in distress. "Hold on," the guy said, voice raspy, then turned into the alleyway and began to move with surprising speed. Brock bit back a startled yelp and threw his arms around the guy's neck, wrinkling his nose a little at the stench of unwashed body, though keeping any complaints about it to himself. Though it made his skin crawl more than a little, thinking of how filthy the guy was. He was going to need a long hot shower once he was safely home... assuming he could even stand long enough for one, he found himself thinking as his ankle twinged painfully from the jolting motion as the guy ran.

The guy cut across a couple of side streets but mostly kept to the back alleys before finally coming to a stop several blocks away, the sirens having stopped somewhere in the distance, presumably somewhere back around where they'd started, if it hadn't been some other incident entirely they'd been responding to. The guy shifted his grip, lowering Brock's legs back to the ground but keeping one surprisingly solidly muscled arm around his back. "Can you walk?" he asked.

Brock tried to put his weight on his ankle, then hissed in pain and shook his head. "Hobble, maybe. Ankle."

The guy nodded. "Hospital?"

"No insurance. I'll have to strap it and hope for the best."

The stranger nodded, and looked around, frowning slightly. The street was empty apart from them and some far-distant headlights. Brock looked around as well, spotting a familiar storefront across the street and recognizing where they were.

"Help me home?" Brock asked, hating that he had to. "It's just a couple blocks from here. I know I already owe you for saving me from those punks... I can't do much to pay you back, but... a hot meal? Use of my shower if you want it, too."

The guy turned and gave him a sharp look at that, then made an amused huffing sound and smiled. It was a startling transformation, that smile. "_Fuck, he's hot_," was all Brock could think for a moment, blindsided to see the handsome man hidden under the layers of grime and uneven scruff.

"Sure," the man said. "Which way?"

"Left," Brock managed to say, hoping his voice didn't sound as off to the other man as it did to him. "Just over two blocks... apartments over the shoe store."

The man nodded, and helped him along, acting as Brock's crutch at first and then, after half a block, making an annoyed sound and picking him back up again. "Faster this way," he said.

Considering how painful the hobbling little hops he'd been making had been, Brock decided against complaining, and just held on as he was carried, the man not putting him down again until they reached the door tucked in to one side of the shoe store, right beside a matching door leading to apartments above the florist's next door. Brock fumbled out his keys, opening the front door, then looked at the guy again. "Third floor," he said, not wanting to say how hard it would be for him to climb them.

That smile again, and then he was being scooped up and carried up the stairs to his apartment.

* * *

"So do you have a name?" Brock asked, watching while the guy wrapped his ankle with every evidence of some expertise at first aid.

The guy darted him a look. "Probably."

Brock frowned at him. "Probably?"

"Don't remember," the guy said, giving a one-shouldered shrug as he neatly tied off the end of the bandage.

"Oh," Brock said, startled, and stared at him for a minute, then looked at the metal fingers holding his leg steady – some kind of prosthetic, though he'd never seen anything like it before – and thought about how viciously the man had thought. "Veteran?"

"Probably," the guy said again. "I remember... uniforms. Guns. Being shot at."

A disabled, amnesiac, homeless veteran. Well, the amnesiac part probably went a big way to explaining the homelessness, not that it was exactly an uncommon problem for veterans. "What can I call you then? Other than 'hey you' or 'my hero', I mean."

That earned him another smile, a crooked one this time, the guy giving him a wryly amused look. "I dunno. List off a few, maybe, see what sounds right."

"Jesus..." Brock said softly, unable to imagine being so far gone as to forget your own name.

"Not that one."

Brock laughed. "Alright," he said, and frowned as he looked the guy over for a moment, thinking. "Um. Bible names maybe, those are always popular... David, Michael, Peter, Abraham, Paul, Benjamin, Simon, James, Ethan, Isaac, Thomas... uhhhh..." He was running blank on common names, and tried a few of the less common as well. "Ezekiel, Gabriel, Malachi, Uriel..."

The guy cocked his head to one side, lifting one hand. "Benjamin or James will do."

"James," Brock said, deciding Benjamin was too much of a mouthful and the guy looked more like a James than a Ben."Thanks for all your help this evening. If you want, you can use the shower while I cook dinner? Won't be much, I'm no gourmet cook. More of the convenience food, things from cans, and frozen dinners sort of cook."

Another of those crooked smiles. "Better than what I normally get," the guy said, and helped Brock to his feet and over to the kitchen before vanishing into the bathroom, pausing for a moment in the doorway of it to stare warily at Brock before closing it.

Brock opened the cupboards, taking out a can of spaghetti sauce and a half-finished box of noodles. He chopped an onion, sauteing it in a pan before dumping in the sauce, and a handful of pre-cooked frozen meatballs from the freezer section of the fridge, then when the shower stopped running filled a big pot with water.

"I might have something that'd fit you if you want to wash your clothes before putting them back on," he called out as he put the pot on the stove and started it heating. "Sweat pants if nothing else; not sure how well any of my tshirts would fit you," he added, thinking of the guy's rather impressive breadth of shoulders.

"Sure," James called back.

Brock dried his hands and ducked into the bedroom, digging out sweatpants, socks, and the largest tshirt he had. He considered underwear for a moment, then wrinkled his nose. Too weird, and probably too small anyway. He carried the stack over the the bathroom and rapped on the door.

It wasn't locked; it swung open, revealing James standing at the sink with a towel wrapped around his hips, in the middle of shaving. Brock could only stare. _Fuck_ he was hot, all long lean muscle – a little too lean, like it'd been a while since he'd eaten properly – wide shoulders, six-pack abs, muscular thighs... Though that was one damned weird prosthetic, it was somehow attached directly to him at the shoulder, by the look of it, the skin around its base thick with scars. It moved like a part of him, smoothly, as he turned to look at Brock. Bionic? But that as science fiction, not science fact, last he'd heard. On the other hand a lot of things that had been science fiction when he was a kid were science fact now, so...

"Thanks," James said. "Just put them on the counter."

"Sure," Brock said, stepping into the room long enough to do that before hastily hobbling back to the kitchen. He stood leaning on the counter, waiting for the water to boil, unable to stop picturing James. Someone up there either really liked him or really hated him, having him be rescued by a super-hot hobo.

He was just dumping the noodles into the boiling water when the bathroom door finally opened again. He looked up to see James emerging and could only stare for a moment, admiring how well he cleaned up. The tshirt fit – barely – tight enough to seem damn near painted on. The sweatpants were also a snug fit, leaving very little to the imagination while providing plenty of fuel for same. James was carrying a bundle in his hands; his dirty clothing.

"Where should I...?" he asked, lifting the bundle to make it clear what he was referring to.

"There's a washer-dryer in the closet there," Brock told him, gesturing at the louvred doors of the large closet next to the bathroom.

James looked that way, then stepped over and opened them, and then just stood there staring inside. "I don't think I've ever used one of these," he said after a minute, sounding frustrated.

"Oh," Brock said, and hobbled over. "Let me show you," he said, opening the washer. "Clothes in here. Check your pockets first to make sure you haven't forgotten anything in them."

He soon had the machine loaded and running, after which he hobbled back to the kitchen to check on the progress of the meal.

"I could set the table?" James offered hesitantly.

"Sure," he said, smiling warmly at him. "Plates in the cupboard by the fridge, cutlery in the drawer there, and there's a shaker of parmesan in the fridge."

James nodded, and moved around getting things out and setting them down. Then stood by, looking a little awkward, while they waited for the noodles to finish cooking.

"Do _you_ have a name?" James asked after a while.

Brock flushed, startled to realize he hadn't supplied his own yet. "I'm Brock. Brock Rumlow."

James nodded, then turned his attention to the pots on the stove, swallowing and licking his lips hungrily. Brock checked the time, then fished out a single noodle to test how done it was, before draining the pot into the sink. He dumped noodles, sauce and meatballs into a serving bowl, then handed it to James to put on the table.

James ate like he hadn't seen food in a while; he inhaled two large helpings in the time it took Brock to eat one, and then finished off the little left in the bowl after Brock had taken a small second. "I'll wash up," James volunteered as soon as the meal was over. "That's one thing I remember how to do," with another crooked smile. So Brock sat at the table, watching as James first washed and then dried and put away the dishes, only getting up when he heard the washing machine spin down from its last cycle.

"Want to watch TV while these dry?" Brock asked after tossing in a dryer sheet and starting the machine going.

"Okay," James agreed.

They sat on opposite ends of the couch, watching a late night rerun of Cheers. Brock kept sneaking peeks at James. If this one of the pornos he sometimes watched, he found himself thinking, they'd already have fucked several times. He could picture it so easily... James pulling him into the bathroom and bending him over the counter, James hoisting him up on the table and sucking him off, James... James had turned to look at him. He flushed, and returned his attention to the TV, fighting the urge to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. When he glanced back again a few minutes later, James was watching the TV again, face oddly blank.

They were halfway through an episode of Mr. Belvedere when the dryer finished. James disappeared into the bathroom again, coming back out dressed in his own clothes again. "I should go," he said.

Brock glanced at the time – well after midnight. "You can stay, if you want," he offered impulsively. "Crash on my couch; it's gotta be a better place to sleep than wherever you're headed."

James gave him a long look, expression blanking out again for a moment, then nodded. "Okay," he said. "Thanks."

* * *

"You're telling me you had _the Winter Soldier_ crashing at your apartment? And washing your dishes," Sam said, voice flat with disbelief.

Rumlow shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Yeah. I was young and stupid, didn't know enough to realize how dangerous he was. I just saw some homeless veteran with mental problems. I guess he must have been on the loose for a few months already by then, a lot of his conditioning wearing thin. Looking back, knowing what I know now about who he is... I think I was just lucky enough to remind him of someone, even if he couldn't remember who. I was a skinny little fuck back then. With suicide blond hair; dyed by my own hand," he added with a brief grin over the old phrase.

"Like Steve, before..." Sam said, suddenly getting it.

"Yeah. So, rescuing me from getting my ass kicked in an alley and willing to hang around and look after me afterwards? Stuff from his past that his owners had never managed to entirely erase, I guess. So he ended up staying with me for a while. Helped me to get to and from work while my ankle healed up so I didn't lose my job, kept the apartment clean, cooked... he's the one that started teaching me how to fight, too. It was a good time for me, at least until HYDRA finally tracked him down again."

* * *

Brock stared at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He'd really started to fill out over the last few months, putting on muscle that he'd never imagined himself having. It had started out simply enough, with James insisting on giving him a little training in self-defence. Which had quickly revealed just how out-of-shape Brock was, his data-entry job not exactly doing much good for his physical fitness. James had insisted he start exercising regularly, so Brock had joined him in his morning fitness routine, which involved a ton of calisthenics and which he was still far from being able to match James' performance of, coming in at less than half the number of reps the other man could do.

He kind of liked the change, despite how tired and sore the exercise and the hand-to-hand training often left him. He felt good; he knew he looked good too, his changing physique having already earned him more than a few compliments.

Besides, it had been the hand-to-hand that had led to James noticing how much Brock liked being manhandled by him, which had in turn led to the bedroom becoming _their_ bedroom. A development he was devoutly grateful for; James might have a few problems, but his bedroom performance was not one of them.

"Hey, you fall in or something?" James called from out in the hallway.

"Nah, just wondering if I should do my hair again," Brock said, opening the door and stepping out, gesturing at his head. He'd had his hair trimmed after work, which had removed most of what was left of his frosted tips. "What do you think? Let it grow out dark, or bleach it blond again?"

"I like the blond," James said. "But dark's a good look on you too."

Brock smirked a little at the way James was looking him over, and stepped close to exchange a kiss with the other man. "We still going out?" he asked afterwards, James having been on the phone with someone when he got home.

"Yeah. Need to stop somewhere first."

"Can I go with, or is this a somewhere that I'm better off not knowing about and I should meet you elsewhere?" he asked. James had found some work for himself a little over a month after they'd first met; not entirely legal work, and sometimes involving people that James preferred that Brock never met. Mobsters, he thought, though he knew James had also done some cash payment under-the-table construction/demolition work for a while when the weather was cool enough that no one would comment on him keeping a long-sleeved shirt and work gloves on all day; James didn't like anyone seeing his metal arm.

James frowned in thought for a moment, then shrugged. "You can come, but you'll need to wait outside, okay?"

"Sure," Brock said, smiling warmly at him.

It was a nice evening for a walk, the weather cool enough to require them to wear jackets but not yet cold. Brock realized he was going to need a new coat soon; his jacket was uncomfortably tight across the shoulders, with all the muscle mass he'd gained. He'd need an entire new wardrobe by spring, if this kept on. Which was something to look forward to, in some ways, but also a future expense to worry over a little. Even with James contributing to the rent and groceries, money wasn't exactly plentiful.

They walked close enough for shoulders to bump and hands to brush occasionally as they moved. They didn't hold hands; too public, and James was always a little extra vigilant when they were out. A holdover from his war years, Brock supposed, though he didn't really know, since whatever had been his life previous to dropping into Brock's wasn't anything he was ever willing to talk about. In any case, Brock preferred to avoid PDAs anyway; too many years of bad experiences made avoiding them his natural impulse. Affection was something to show when you were somewhere private, somewhere safe, not out in public where the wrong people might see and get ugly ideas.

"Wait here," James eventually said, glancing around, and pushed lightly on Brock's shoulder to guide him into an inset doorway, blocked off by a closed and locked security grille. "I shouldn't be more than five, maybe ten minutes. All right?"

"Sure," Brock said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the brick wall. "I'll just stand here and look pretty."

James gave him an amused look, then crossed the street, knocking on a door of a building and then disappearing inside. Brock waited, looking forward to when James returned and they could continue on. Hit a nice restaurant somewhere, or maybe a club; there was a gay bar he knew not all that long a walk away from here. Though that might be too crowded and noisy, something he knew from experience that James didn't like...

There was a sound like a distant backfire, then another, and a window of the building James had gone into exploded outwards, shattered glass and a dark-clad form dropping to the street. His mouth dropped open in shock as he abruptly recognized James as the man rolled out and rose back to his feet in a surprisingly graceful move. A practised move. Their eyes met.

"Run!" James shouted, even as he began moving in Brock's direction. Brock didn't question, just turned and pelted along the sidewalk, hearing James' footsteps rapidly catching up to his own. Another bang, louder this time – a gunshot, he realized, even as he heard James grunt and stumble. He spun around, heart in his throat, in time to see James rolling to a sitting position on a sidewalk facing back the direction they'd come from, a gun appearing in one hand as if by magic, holding it up braced with both hands before shooting at a group of three men chasing after them. One staggered and fell, and the other two split apart, raising guns of their own. More shots, from them, from James, and they both went down.

"I said _run_," James snapped angrily as he scrambled to his feet again and saw Brock still there, staring gape-mouthed at him.

"What's happening!?" Brock exclaimed, terrified by the sudden and violent turn of events. Though he also resumed running, James falling into step beside him, gun still in hand.

"You don't need to..." James started to say, and then there was the sound of another gunshot and Brock was on the ground, his left leg hurting, his head ringing from impact with the cement. He was dimly aware of screeching tires, of angry shouting, and desperately clung to consciousness.

"Stop! Stop!" he heard James call out. "Стоп!"

Brock blinked up at the darkened sky overhead, then rolled his head enough to see James standing beside him, gun pointed at a group of advancing figures, almost all pointing guns at James, a couple aiming at Brock. They looked pretty frightened, he found himself thinking, for so many of them facing just two men. One man, really, Brock being out of the fight already, and not even close to skilled enough to have ever been in it in the first place.

A car door slammed, and a voice called out, in some language that wasn't English. It made him think muzzily of spy movies. Russian maybe? Polish? Something foreign and eastern European in sound, anyway. The tone of voice was unpleasant, like a verbal sneer.

James spoke angrily back in the same tongue, stopped, then continued in a softer tone, pleading or bargaining. After a pause the other person replied. Agreement. James slowly raised his hands in the air, casting a desperate look behind himself at Brock before releasing his gun to drop to the pavement. The mob of armed men surged forward, dog-piling onto him. Someone banged into Brock's injured leg, and he blacked out from the pain.

* * *

Brock woke in a hospital bed, held down with restraints. The walls were a cracked and peeling green, the air smelled faintly of mildew beneath the strong scent of bleach, and he could hear a steady dripping sound from somewhere nearby. He struggled against the restraints for a couple of minutes, then accepted that there was no way he was getting out of them without help. He lay there taking stock of the situation, noticing the dull throb in his leg, remembered what must have been a gunshot taking him down. By the fact that it was nowhere near as painful as it had been earlier, he guessed it had been treated, and painkillers administered.

He'd figured out that the painkillers were wearing off and was wondering if he'd be given any more when the door to the room opened, a tall, thin man walking in. The man barely glanced at him, then set down a file folder on one of those rolling bed tables, moving it and a cheap chrome and vinyl visitor's chair close to the bed before taking a seat. He slid on a pair of glasses, looked over the top of them at Brock for a moment, then flipped open the folder and looked over the first page in it.

"Mr Brock Rumlow, age 22. Estranged from his family, no close connections," he said, a faint accent noticeable, and then looked at Brock again. "One close connection, that _we_ know of. As of 15 hours ago, you have ceased to exist. You were shot in the thigh in the course of a mugging, and sadly bled out before paramedics arrived. All attempts to resuscitate you failed. Your body was delivered to the local morgue, where it has already been processed, and claimed for burial by a friend. The friend, of course, does not exist, no more than the body did, though all the correct photos and paperwork does."

"But I'm not dead," Brock pointed out, starting to feel scared now. Well, more scared.

"No. You are not. The Winter Soldier offered to surrender if you were not harmed, and were given medical care. I accepted his offer, in part because of the damage and deaths he could have caused had he _not_ surrendered, and in part because it amused me to do so. I am an easily amused man, at times," he said, then leaned back in the chair, folding his hands across his belly.

"The Winter Soldier?" Brock asked, confused.

"You knew him as James. It is really quite fascinating, how human he has become since his previous handler lost track of him. I have always argued that... never mind, it is nothing you need concern yourself about. Suffice to say that this little interlude in his career has proven several pet theories of mine correct, which has me in an exceptionally agreeable mood. Agreeable enough to be generous; to allow you to continue living, rather than simply disposing of you now that the Soldier is safely back in our hands. I will wish to speak with you, later... I have questions about his time with you. Many questions. A job within our organization will be found for you, once you are recovered enough to perform it. Work well, fit in, and you will have a pleasant life, a good future. But do please remember that you are currently alive only due to a whim of mine. A whim which may pass, if you prove more of an annoyance than an asset. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I understand," Brock said. The man's meaning was crystal clear; co-operate, or die.

"Very good. I will return to speak to you again tomorrow morning. For now I believe you are due for your medication and a meal. Good-night, Mr Rumlow," the man said, rose to his feet again, retrieved his file folder, and left.

* * *

"So that's how you ended up in HYDRA? Recruited at gun point? Man, that's messed up," Sam said.

Brock shrugged. "I thought the same, at first. But after a while it was just another job, one which came with room and board, and additional training in more physical skills once I showed both an interest and an aptitude. A lot boring, especially since I was still essentially a prisoner and wasn't allowed off base. But over time... well, the beliefs of HYDRA weren't too far off some of my own; within a few years I'd gone from reluctant recruit to being overall pretty content with my life, earned some trust, more freedoms, and started to progress in rank at a steady pace. HYDRA eventually recreated a persona for me, and moved me over to SHIELD. While this might not be the life I'd have chosen if I'd never encountered James, it's a life I've mostly enjoyed anyway, and probably a much better one than the one I'd have had otherwise."

"So how long have you known? That the Winter Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes."

"Two days."

"Two _days..._ you're fucking with me."

"Nope, word of honour. Didn't have a clue until I was trying to find out where he'd gone after I left the hospital. Wasn't even sure if he was alive at first, until I heard they'd found the Captain pulled up on the bank of the Potomac and guessed that it was the Soldier that had most likely done that. From there it wasn't too hard to figure out where James had gone, especially once I found where he'd buried some of his gear and weapons and had an idea of initial direction. He's a sneaky bastard but even with SHIELD gone I have tech and a few local resources I could use; his path led me to the Smithsonian, at which point it wasn't hard to figure out _exactly_ who he was."

"The Howling Commandos exhibit." Sam stated flatly.

"Yeah. With a special display dedicated entirely to the memory of Steve Rogers' long dead childhood friend, James Buchanan Barnes. Imagine my surprise."

"So that's when you decided to recruit Steve or me to help you rescue him?"

"No. I didn't decide on that until last night, when I finally tracked down where he currently is, and realized I couldn't get him out on my own. And even if I could get him out solo... well, he'll need help. Therapy. Protection. Things I know I can't give him... but an Avenger might. Much as I hate to admit it, the best thing I can do for him to repay him for everything he did for me all those years ago is to get him into Captain Rogers' hands. The Captain won't let HYDRA get their hands on him again... nor anyone else who might harm him either."

"You're HYDRA but you don't want HYDRA having him?"

"No," Brock said, flatly. "He deserves better treatment than he's ever had at their hands."

Sam sat back and studied Brock's face for a long moment, then nodded. "All right. I believe you. Let's do this then. Anything special I need or need to know?"

"No. Just suit up and let's go. Leave behind anything that could be used to track you; no cell phone or anything GPS enabled or anything like that."

Sam nodded, and went to pack a bag and get his wings.


	3. Rescue

They left in Sam's car, Brock driving.

"Nice new car smell," Brock observed.

"Yesh, well, my old car was pretty much totalled after the Winter Soldier pulled it over with extreme prejudice. So you better drive my new girl really carefully and not get any dings in her paintwork."

"Insurance cover it?"

Sam laughed. "_No_. Well, mine certainly didn't anyway, and with SHIELD tanking theirs didn't either, but luckily for me both Natasha and Steve were covered by some kind of special policy Stark had put together for the Avengers, and _that_ covered it under some sort of property damage of civilian volunteer assistants rider. Don't ask me how that actually works, I'm just glad to have a car."

Brock snorted and kept driving.

"So where are we headed, and what's the plan once we get there?" Sam asked.

"An old HYDRA installation down near Indian Head. It hasn't been really active in years, but too many of the newer locations were exposed in the data Romanoff dumped on the net; HYDRA should never have stored any of that information on SHIELD servers, no matter how secure they thought they were."

"And that's where Bucky ended up? Why?"

Brock glanced sideways at him, then returned his attention to the road. "It's old enough to be a place he knows, from when he's been active in this area before. When he got hungry, old programming kicked in and he headed there like a homing pigeon."

"Got hungry?" Sam asked puzzled.

Another sideways glance, and when Rumlow returned his attention to the road, his expression was grim. "Old problem with guard dogs. Someone throws them some poisoned meat, they're no longer guarding. Old solution for the problem... train them to only eat when given food and a specific command by their handler. The Winter Soldier is a very well-trained attack dog. Once he got hungry enough, he went looking for his handlers."

"You said he ate when he was at your place."

"Yeah, but that was before they recaptured him. His going missing for most of a year... guess they decided they needed a few extra controls on him. More conditioning. By the time I encountered him again years later, he was... different. More inhuman, some would say. There was nothing left of the man I'd known. Erased, or the memories pushed so deep they might as well have been."

"But you still care about him."

"I do," Brock agreed, and for a moment Sam saw a softer expression flicker across his face. "Not that he cares about me as anything more than one of the handful of people authorized to work with him. He recognizes my face solely from the files he's been shown of his handlers and support personnel, not for any more personal reason. But _I_ remember what he was to me, what he did for me, to save my life. Though it was over a decade later before I ever saw him again, and by then I wasn't the same person either."

"That must have been strange, the first time the two of you met again."

"It was," Brock agreed. "For me, anyway. For him it was just another day."

* * *

Brock joined the line-up of men along the back wall of the room, exchanging nods with a few he knew from previous missions. They were all dressed in much the same outfits; combat boots, cargo pants, and plain black t-shirts, though none of them had the gear harness or weapons they'd normally have been carrying while on duty. They had been specifically warned against bringing any weapons into the room, in fact.

Dr Kruger walked in, as stiffly erect as ever, though he'd aged considerably since Brock's first encounter with him, hair turning from blond to silver, skin dotted with liver spots and slackening, though he was remarkably wrinkle-free overall for a man of his age. He took a place at the front of the room, looking them over carefully, waiting for silence to fall before finally speaking.

"Good day, gentlemen. You have been gathered here today because all of you have proved exemplary in both your dedication to the cause and your training. Today that has earned you an unmatched opportunity. We are reactivating one of our finest assets for a special mission. He will require support personnel in order to carry it out. All of you are, in our opinion, capable of working with him, but we have found through trial and error over the years that it is always best to let him make the final decision, and choose those he will work with."

Dr Kruger paused, lifting his chin and giving them all another long, hard look. "A few words of caution, before we begin. The asset is highly trained; his value to our organization is several times over that of any other operative. He is also aggressive and sometimes hair-triggered. If he decides to, if he judges any of you are either inadequate in your skills, or a threat to himself or his mission, he might well kill one or more of you. If we judge he was incorrect in his assessment, he will of course be punished, but that will be of little comfort to you, as you will be quite dead. Do not try to stare him down. Do not try to touch him. Do not speak to him unless you have been authorized to do so. Is this clear?"

"Clear, sir," they all answered.

"Very good. Remain where you are. The asset will make his choices clear; those of you chosen, move to the opposite side of the room and wait. And remember, there is no dishonour in being passed over by him. That you are even standing here means we already consider you to be one of our best."

Dr Kruger left the room. There was a short pause, and then a different door opened, and James walked in.

Or at least, someone who looked like James walked in. As soon as he saw the flat, expressionless gaze of James' eyes, Brock felt very certain of one thing; James was gone. This was the Winter Soldier. the asset, as Dr Kruger had just referred to him as. Watching him stalk toward the group of them was eerie; a dozen years had passed since Brock had last seen him, and yet he looked almost exactly the same, as if he hadn't aged a day in the intervening time. He had slightly longer hair, and the tan he'd had from working outside had disappeared, but apart from that... he hadn't changed. Not physically, anyway.

Brock knew that he himself had changed considerably in that time, looking almost nothing like the skinny little preppie he'd been back then. If anything, his shoulders were now wider than James', his thighs thicker, result of both a very physically demanding job and a regular heavy work-out routine. Brock knew he'd gained crow's lines and a dark tan from all the time spent out in the field, had found his first few grey hairs though he was still less than halfway into his third decade. James looked _younger_ than Brock, though he'd definitely been the more mature in appearance before.

Not James, he sternly reminded himself as the other man came to an abrupt halt and looked along the line of them. The Winter Soldier.

For a long moment the room was absolutely silent. Someone swallowing off to his left was clearly audible.

When James moved again, it was with startling speed, stepping right up to Jerry, one of the biggest guys in the line-up and staring intently into his eyes for a long moment before stepping back again, tapping him on the right shoulder with two fingers. Jerry had gone tense but not otherwise flinched; Brock wondered if that had been why he was chosen... but then Martin, the smallest of them all, _did_ flinch when the asset made a similarly threatening move towards him a little while later. James grinned like a shark and tapped him anyway. There just wasn't any visible pattern to whom he chose and whom he left behind.

There was no sign at all that he recognized Brock, just a flat-eyed glance and then he moved on, picking two more people before he reached the end of the line. Then he turned and started back toward the door he'd entered by – and as he passed Brock again, reached out to tap fingers to his shoulder as well, not even glancing at him as he did so. Brock froze for a moment, then walked across the room to join the others who'd been selected.

* * *

"There was a little training in how to work with him; mostly more of the same about not making any challenging moves, no staring, never trying to touch him unless it was a necessary part of arming him or adjusting his gear, and even then being sure he saw it coming. He'd picked nine of us; five went with him for the mission. I wasn't one of them. And then he vanished again, for about three years that time. The next time he worked in the US, I was the senior operative of those he picked out, so I was given extra training and responsibilities – set up as one of the people he could be fed by, allowed to make suggestions to him in the field. Never orders; he'd be given a goal by the higher-ups, and within certain parameters he was always allowed to make his own choices as to how to achieve the goal. He'd listen to his senior assistants if they had feedback, since he knew he wasn't always up to date on subtleties of weaponry or technology, but the final choices always came down to him."

"And he never failed."

"No. He never failed... not until he was unleashed on the Captain and Romanoff. Or if he had failed, it was at some time in the past, and we certainly were never told about it."

Sam nodded, and looked out the window at the passing scenery. "We're getting close to Indian Head," he pointed out. "Want to let me in on your plan as to how we're getting in and getting him out?"

Rumlow grimaced. "Not much of a plan, really. It's an underground installation; entrance is through what looks like a cement-block outbuilding. My clearance is high enough that I should be able to get the two of us in past the first line of defences without anyone questioning your presence. It'll be once we're inside that the going could get tough; most of those who fell back to there are science types, not much of a danger, but from the intel I have, there's a team of combat operatives there with them; we probably won't fool them long, and once they twig that something isn't right, it's going to be a fire-fight."

"Right. So, you and me against... how many people? How big a team?"

Rumlow grinned. "Anywhere from five to fifteen, depending on the team size and how many of the science types have any combat skills or get scared enough to weigh in on the fight despite a lack of them. Maybe more, but based on what I've heard, somewhere under fifteen effectives is most likely."

"What you've heard," Sam said, in a flat tone of voice, yet still a question.

"Bumped into someone I knew yesterday; she recognized me as someone who the Winter Soldier would respond to, it's how I know where he is and have some idea of who is there with him."

"And she won't be a problem to us?"

Rumlow glanced at him. "No, and not in the way you might be thinking. She was headed out of the country; science side type, has a post in Europe she's on the way to. Prefers to be well out of the US with the way things are shaking down here. She thinks it'll be safer for her there."

Sam kept his mouth shut on that. With Fury alive and headed to Europe, he doubted that Europe would be any safer in the near future for HYDRA personnel than the US was. But that certainly wasn't a thought he wanted to share with Rumlow. "In the neighbourhood of fifteen people sounds more like a job for the Captain than for me."

Rumlow snorted. "Tell me about it. We went after him in an elevator with ten armed operatives and he took us all down single-handed. But you're what I've got, and I've seen you work. You're not too bad yourself. Besides, you took on all of SHIELD with just, what, a half-dozen people? If that?"

Sam smiled slightly. "We had a little help."

"Which we won't have here. But element of surprise, tight confines, us going in expecting a fight and them probably relaxing because they think they're somewhere safe... as long as the Winter Soldier doesn't take an interest in the fight, we should be fine, and from what my friend said he's holed up in one of the labs and everyone else is keeping well away from him. Hopefully any fighting we do is well away from him too."

"Sounds like people tend to treat him more like an unexploded bomb than a person."

"Pretty much. He's given us a lot of reasons to, over the years; he's only marginally less dangerous to his handlers than to his targets." Rumlow paused a moment, frowning. "The more I think about it, the more I think it was a stroke of luck that I ended up with you and not the Captain."

"Why's that?"

"You've never been his mission. You were just..." Rumlow lifted one hand from the wheel for a moment to wave it back and forth in mid-air. "...in his way. He's not as likely to just up and attack you on sight."

"Gee, that's so reassuring to hear," Sam said dryly.

"We're almost there," Rumlow said. "We can't drive all the way there. There's a motel not too far from here, we'll check in and leave the car there, hike in to the place..."

"...why hike when you can fly Air Wilson?" Sam interrupted. "Wings are rated to carry two. Three in a pinch, though it gets a little unstable at that point."

Rumlow gave him a slightly surprised look. "Good point. Okay, yeah, we can fly most of the way there and hike in the last little bit. Get in, get James, get back out again."

"And you're positive he'll just come along with you?"

"May take a little talking to get him to come along. But I've worked with him enough over the years that I think he'll trust me, at least as much as he ever trusts anyone, which isn't far."

"You're really selling this mission to me, you know?"

"Would you rather I lied and said he'd follow me like a little lamb?"

"Actually, no. Truth is better. Even scary facing-down-an-unexploded-bomb sorts of truth."

* * *

Brock took back his credit card – not in his real name, and not one he'd acquired through either SHIELD or HYDRA – and walked back out to the car. Wilson had moved over into the driver's seat. "Room 126, around the back," he called to him. "I'll meet you there."

Wilson nodded and drove away. Brock cut through the walkway between the office and the main body of the motel, stopping in the tiny convenience store to pick up a few things – energy bars and drinks, a package of underwear and a disposable razor, small things like that mainly. As he waited for the girl at the register to ring up his purchases, ignoring the curious looks she was giving his battered appearance, he found himself thinking how surprisingly calmly Wilson had been taking all of this. Though maybe he shouldn't be surprised; this was a man whose job in the military had been para-rescue, which involved dropping into hot zones to make retrieval on wounded soldiers. Being able to stay cool-headed in the face of adverse conditions was pretty much a prerequisite for the job, and Wilson had certainly handled himself well in his recent confrontations with HYDRA, Brock had to admit.

Brock accepted the plastic bag from the girl and walked out, continuing on to their room. Wilson's car was parked outside of it, Wilson leaning with arms crosses against the hood of it, his luggage – the wing pack and a small duffle bag of necessities he'd packed before leaving – at his feet. Wilson straightened up as he approached, picking up his bags and following him into the room after Brock carded open the door.

"So what's the plan?"

"We should wait until it's getting dark out to leave," Brock replied. "Less chance of us being spotted on our way there. Need to kill a couple of hours until then."

Wilson nodded, set his packs down at the foot of one of the beds, and took a battered-looking paperback out of one pocket of the duffle, settling down on the bed to read. Brock took off his boots and belt, emptying some of the lumpier things from his assortment of pockets into a pile on the end table, then stretched out on the other bed. "Wake me when it's time," he said.

Wilson looked over at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. "You trust me enough for that?"

"Not really. But I trust you to want to help James, and not stab me in the back until after we have him safely out."

Wilson snorted, and went back to his reading.

* * *

Sam waited for Rumlow to give him the all clear signal, then exited their room, the pair of them hurrying across the parking lot and into the wooded area in back of the motel. They stayed on foot until they were well out of view, then stopped long enough for Rumlow to strap into a carry harness and Sam to clip cables onto its attach points before lifting off, the arrangement making it much easier for him to carry the other man in flight. Rumlow had given him a set of co-ordinates to aim for, somewhere not too far from, but out of sight of, the hidden base's entrance, and it was only a comparatively short flight later before they were setting down again.

"This way," Rumlow said, leading off, Sam following behind him.

"So how long do you figure we'll have once we get in before anyone guesses that I don't belong there?" Sam asked.

"Not very long at all, if the wrong person takes an interest. Don't take this the wrong way, but... this would be easier if you were white."

Sam snorted. "You mean an operation with its roots in Nazi Germany doesn't exactly attract a wide base among people of colour? Colour me surprised. Actually I'm surprised you don't have more of a problem with things yourself; the Nazis weren't exactly known for their support of homosexuals either."

"It's been almost seventy years, things have changed as much for HYDRA as they have elsewhere in society," Rumlow said. "Not that the founder of HYDRA was all that personally invested in Hitler's Aryan ideals in the first place; he had a rather different idea about what constituted a superior race. The Nazis were a means to an end for him; a source of funding and personnel."

"So what you're telling me is that HYDRA's relationship with the Nazis is much like their relationship with SHIELD... leeching off of them and manipulating their goals to meet your own?"

"That's one way of putting it," Rumlow agreed, then stopped walking. "Look, I'll agree that not everything HYDRA has ever done is something I can agree with. But..."

"Save the sales pitch, man, I'm not interested," Sam cut him off. "Just give me some warning for when the shooting is about to start."

Rumlow frowned, then nodded. "Fair enough. Like I said before, we should be able to get inside the defences before things start getting messy. I'd prefer to attack first rather than waiting for them to attack us, but best of all is if we can get in and out without requiring a fire-fight at all. Though if you see me go for my weapons, that's the signal that it's time for you to do the same. After that, anyone you see moving that's not me, shoot until they stop moving. Up to you whether that's a kill shot or just disabling them."

"Right," Sam said flatly, and did a swift pat-down of himself, checking that all his weapons were where he wanted them. "Should I leave the wing-pack somewhere outside?"

"No, you might as well keep it with you; it looks enough like some of the hard-shell packs we sometimes use to pass casual inspection. And when we leave we may need to move fast."

"Got it," Sam agreed.

They came in sight of the entranceway a couple of minutes later, an innocuous looking cinderblock building built in a cement-lined cut-in on a hillside, surrounded by a square of rusting barbed-wire topped fence, an assortment of warning signs of the 'Entry Prohibited – No Trespassing', 'Monitored by CCTV Camera' and 'Danger – High Voltage' variety on the exterior.

Rumlow opened a metal box on a standpipe attached to the fence, the corroded metal screeching a little as it opened. There was a bulky old-fashioned keypad unit of some kind inside, with a cracked LED screen. Rumlow took a keyring out of one his pockets, and held the colourful plastic decoration on it to the underside of the keypad. The keypad swung open, revealing a much smaller and entirely undamaged keypad hidden inside. He tapped in a code, and a light flashed twice, then the whole thing shut itself up again. "This way," Rumlow said, ignoring the still-locked gate, and led the way around to the back of the building, where a manhole cover sunken into a small concrete pad just outside the fence line was opening itself upwards like the hatch entry on a submarine, revealing a ladder-lined tunnel leading down.

* * *

Brock slid down the ladder, landing easily at the bottom and stepping away from the ladder to clear space for Wilson to follow him.

"Operative Brock Rumlow," a voice said over a crackle-laden intercom system. "Who else?"

"A recent recruit, Kevin Miller – not sure if he'll be in your system yet," Brock replied calmly.

There was a brief pause, then the voice spoke again. "He's in the database. Opening the doors."

A featureless metal door set in one wall opened with a hiss, the old pneumatic system that operated it leaking air through imperfect seals. They stepped into a second small room, facing a second featureless door – essentially an air lock, controlling entry and exit from the facility.

"Kevin?" Wilson murmured as the door hissed again while closing.

"Real recruit. Went down with the Helicarriers," Brock answered back, rubbing his nose to cover the slight movement of his lips as he replied in an undertone.

"Okay," Wilson said, head barely moving in a nod of understanding.

The second door opened, much more quietly than the first. Brock turned his head to look at the retracted panel as he stepped through into the main entrance room. "Get some repair work done?" he asked the man sitting at the control desk to one side of the room, someone he recognized from when he'd been posted out in the mid-west for a while some years back... Lloyd or Lou or something like that. Lewis. "That thing sounded on its last legs last time I was ever here."

"Yeah, well, one of the techs found replacement seals for the pneumatic and hydraulic systems and has been making his way around fixing up all of the worst-condition things," Lewis said, rising to his feet and holding out a hand. "Glad to see you made it through that mess, Rumlow, though it looks like you had a close call or three," he added, giving Brock a head to toe look as he shook his hand.

"Or three, yeah... I was in the Triskelion when one of the Helicarriers decided to slide on through it. Listen, I bumped into Pamela Hodges on her way out of the country – she told me you guys have the asset here?"

"Yeah, we do... he showed up on his own a few days ago. You're authorized to work with him, right?"

"Yes I am, which is why I headed here as quickly as I could; he was acting erratically the last time I saw him and I imagine that's only gotten worse since, especially if he's not being fed."

"Erratic about covers it," Lewis agreed. "He's holed up in one of the back labs. Won't eat, won't sleep, won't let anyone come near him. We were keeping an eye on him over the CCTV system but then he took out the camera in there; none of us are stupid enough to try getting close enough to see if he's still alive. You think you can handle him, he's all yours."

"Right. Well, in that case I'd suggest the first thing we do is gather up everyone and move them to the far side of the facility from him, or out of it entirely if that's an option; if he decides he doesn't like the colour of my eyes or the cut of my hair and I set him off on a rampage, I'd rather there wasn't anyone else in his immediate vicinity."

"Sounds good," Lewis said, and went back behind the desk to key on the intercom system. "All staff, please gather in the cafeteria for an emergency briefing. This is not a drill. Repeat, all staff gather in the cafeteria for a briefing." He flipped the system back off, then gestured to a doorway leading deeper into the facility. "This way – I'll leave you to explain it to everyone."

"Sure. Who-all is here? Pamela said it was mostly science types?"

"Yeah, a small lab's worth of science rats and their support people. Brent Henry's people – you remember him? He's the one that brought them here, he'd been based out of here himself back in the day."

"I remember Brent. Good administrator. He must be, what, in his 70s now? Surprised he never retired."

"Seventy-eight. He tried retirement, got bored and came back. He's back on active research, says the young idiots can take care of all the paperwork while he has some fun again."

Brock snorted at that, then fell silent as he heard the sounds of a gathering of people from somewhere up ahead. He glanced back at Wilson, and made a discrete pointing gesture with one hand as they walked into the cafeteria, hoping that Wilson would interpret it correctly as the 'stay back near the door' he intended it to be. He followed Lewis around to one side of the room, where there was a small podium; this was the only space in the facility large enough for everyone to gather at once, and had always been used whenever there was a large briefing to get through.

Most of the people gathered there were seated already, a cluster of people in either lab coats or casual clothing clustered around a white-haired, frail-looking old man, though there was a group of black-glad operatives standing off to one side. Rumlow recognized most of them, a STRIKE team his own had worked with before. He nodded to the team leader, a man named Matt Draper, and hoped it didn't come down to a fight... he'd always liked Matt. And Lewis too, for that matter, who despite being from the mid-west had never even blinked when he'd figured out that Brock wasn't straight. As he stepped up to the podium, he was relieved to see that Wilson had stayed near the doors, and that no one seemed to be paying any particular attention to his presence.

He quickly scanned the room, taking in other familiar faces, then smiled. "Many of you know me," he said. "You're all also aware that the asset is in this facility, a danger to you all. I'm here to try and get him back under proper control, but that will also be dangerous for you; I'm not sure if he'll even recognize me," he gestured at his battered face, "And even if he does, I'm not sure how he'll react to me. I would strongly advise that all of you vacate the facility; there are other uncompromised bases you can head to, now that things have had time to calm down a little out there. Failing that, I would suggest any of you who'd prefer to stay take shelter in the rooms furthest from where he's sequestered himself. Lock down everything you can between yourselves and this room. Leave the way to the entrance open; if I fail, and he decides to move, you're better off allowing him to leave than trying to prevent his exit."

"He speaks the truth," Doctor Henry spoke up, his voice reedy with age, raising one hand. "The asset is more of a danger to us than he is to our enemies right now; if the operative can secure him, then the asset will resume his role as a weapon in HYDRA's hand. If Mr Rumlow fails, than it will take more manpower to subdue him than we have on hand here; it may even prove impossible. The Winter Soldier has been awake too long; doubtless his programming is beginning to fail."

"Do you prefer to stay or to leave, Doctor Henry?" Matt Draper stepped forward to ask.

"Mmmm. Leave, I think. There is a base I know of far to the west of here. My people and I will go there. You and your people are doubtless of more use elsewhere."

"Doubtless," Draper agreed dryly; likely he read the situation the same way Brock did, as Doctor Henry preferring not to reveal the location of the base to anyone outside his own trusted circle of subordinates.

"Gracie, prepare the bus," Doctor Henry said, turning to a heavy-set woman seated nearby. "Load up, everyone – we will depart as soon as everything is loaded. I trust Mr Rumlow to wait until we've departed before making his experiment."

His people all moved into action, clearly knowing what to do without further direction, one of the younger ones moving to help the Doctor to his feet and out of the room, towards where there was a tunnel leading to an underground garage a quarter mile away.

"Bus?" Brock asked Lewis quietly.

Lewis looked amused. "Tour bus. Looks just like every other one carting sightseers around the US. It's how he moved all his people here. They're efficient; they'll probably be pulling out within a half hour."

Matt Draper's team moved off to help the scientists with loading their bus, while Matt himself came over to talk to Brock, resting one hip on the corner of a table nearby. "I don't envy you your job," he said. "I've never worked with the asset myself, but I've talked to guys who have, and going in to face him down when he's unstable? You're a braver man than I am."

"Yeah, well, I've worked with him a few times over the years; I figure if anyone around here has any chance of retrieving him, it's me."

"Who's this?" Matt asked, nodding to where Wilson was still standing by the doors.

"A recent recruit of mine. He was lucky enough to escape the mess at the Triskelion and get to one of the safe houses, which is where I met up with him. Kevin, come meet Matt Draper, an old friend of mine. Matt, this is Kevin Miller."

Wilson walked over and shook Matt's hand. "Pleased to meet you," he said, managing to look credibly friendly.

"You're lucky to be working with Rumlow; stick with him and you should come through the rest of this mess safely and with a promotion or two. Assuming you survive the next couple of hours anyway," Matt said with a toothy grin.

Wilson managed a smile and a nod. "I'll do that," he said, then looked at Rumlow. "Anything I should be doing, sir?"

"No, why don't you go grab a snack out of the machines," Brock said, gesturing to a row of them along one wall. "We've been on the move most of the day, no time for proper meals," he explained to Draper, then rested a foot on a nearby chair, folding his arms on his knee. "So you have an idea of where to head with your group?"

They talked quietly for a while, until Draper's group began straggling back into the room. "Bus just left," one of them called out.

"Great. Grab your stuff and we'll be heading out as well," Draper ordered. "Good luck, Rumlow, Miller."

"Miller? Kevin's here?" someone asked hopefully, looking around and spotting Wilson, then going tense. "_You're_ not Kevin," he said suspiciously.

Rumlow had his gun in hand before Draper's people could react, having realized what was occurring before the words had even left the man's mouth. Just their luck, that Draper's team would include someone who actually knew the man whose name he'd used for Wilson. He took out Draper first of all, knowing just how dangerous the other man could be, and was relieved to see as he turned to aim towards the cluster of operatives that Wilson had also realized that things were turning to shit in time to get his guns out, and already had a couple of them down. With Draper taken care of, there was a precious few seconds where his people were surprised and without obvious guidance, mostly diving for cover rather than looking for targets. Rumlow picked off a couple more of them, as did Sam, even as both of them also dived for what little cover was available in the room.

It was a chaotic couple of minutes before the last of Draper's team was down, Rumlow having taken a gunshot wound to the upper arm before it ended, and narrowly missed being shot in the head; it had creased his scalp, leaving a long shallow wound that was bleeding copiously. "You all right, Wilson?" he called out as he carefully scanned the room, making sure there wasn't anyone left in any condition to fight.

"I'm just _fiiiiine_," Wilson called back. "Peachy keen. You know how much I love random firefights."

"Not at all?" Brock asked as he finally rose to his feet, eyes flicking watchfully from body to body.

"About that much, yeah," Wilson agreed, easing out from where he'd been crouched at the end of the line of vending machines. They'd taken a few bullets that had been aimed Wilson's way, the glass fronts smashed and spilling junk food and long-shelf-life packaged snacks all over the floor. "Shit, you're bleeding."

"Scalp wound, and a graze to the arm," Brock told him. He crouched down to check Draper, finding a thready pulse. The man might live, if medical help arrived in time. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that; on the one hand he'd rather not have killed Matt, but on the other... well, his career with HYDRA was pretty much shot now anyway. Even if he was cold-blooded enough to finish off any potential survivors among the fallen, which he wasn't, he wouldn't be able to entirely cover up his involvement in what had happened here, not with Doctor Henry's group knowing of his and Wilson's presence. And really, it had ended the moment he'd decided that his loyalty to James meant rescuing him from HYDRA rather than retrieving him for them.

He let Wilson do his medical aid thing on the fallen while he himself saw to zip-tying any of them that weren't already deceased; once they were clear of the place they could see about getting word to someone to come deal with the dead and injured. In the meantime, he'd rather not have any of them sneaking up on him with revenge in mind. He also let Wilson clean up and bandage his upper arm wound – a through-and-through shot that thankfully hadn't damaged anything important – and spray plastic bandage along the gouge in his scalp. He neatened himself up as best he could, knowing that James would react better to him if he didn't look quite so much like he'd just come from a firefight. Then he put together a tray of food and beverages to bring with him, bottled water and juice and things from the vending machines, along with some of the power bars he'd picked up earlier.

"Wait here," he told Wilson. "If you hear shooting, hide, and hope he doesn't spot you on his way out."

"Will do." Wilson said, glancing up from where he was bandaging one of the wounded. "Say, how likely are these guys to have cyanide capsules in their teeth?"

Rumlow snorted. "Not very. That went out of style years ago. Maybe one or two of them; there's always at least a few who figure they'd rather kill themselves than face potential trial and incarceration. Or torture."

"Right. That make me feel so much better," Wilson muttered, looking around at the scattered bodies, then looked back at Brock again. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Brock said, then headed toward the back labs. He started whistling once he was halfway there, preferring to advertise his presence well before the Winter Soldier saw him.

* * *

For his first three days after entering the facility, the asset had lived in a corner of the lab room, tucked into a small space at the end of a run of counters. He could see most of the room from there, and had leaned a chromed tray against the wall nearby to give himself a view of the door and the hallway beyond without exposing himself to fire from that direction.

Only once had someone tried to approach the room, but he had shouted threats and curses at them in three different languages, and they'd withdrawn without him needing to waste any of his remaining bullets.

There was a sink in the counter, not too far away. Whenever his stomach began to ache too much from hunger he drank water, filling up on that instead. Though that was a balancing act, of a sort, weighing the cramping of his stomach against the urgency of his bladder. There was a bathroom off of the lab – just a sink and a toilet, in a small, cold, white-tiled closet of a room. He didn't like going in there, even after he tore the door off its hinges so that he couldn't be trapped inside, and he waited as long as he could between uses.

He didn't feel safe enough to sleep, and there wasn't a handler here to command him to do so, so he mostly just drifted on the edge of it when he became too tired, never really dropping down but not entirely awake. His mind wandered in ways that it was rarely allowed to, little bits of long-suppressed memories floating to the surface of his mind. Some were disturbing in one way – scenes of violence and bloodshed – and some in another. Faces and voices he knew that he should know, but didn't. Some doubtless of previous mission targets, others... others just people he thought he should know, but had no memories of other than glimpses of them. A blond boy seen at various ages, from childhood to adulthood. A man in a bowler hat. Women, many of them, some of whom fed him and some of whom fucked him and some who did both. Or danced, or just smiled, or sang, or lay there dead and spattered with blood, or crouched down in combat-ready stance and grinned ferally back at him, reasy to go another round. A rotund little man in round glasses. That one he knew a name for. _Zola_. And felt hate and fear in equal measure, remembering what terrible odds and ends he did of him.

In his more aware moments he tended his gear, as best as he could with few supplies, and without leaving the comparative safety of his chosen corner.

By the third day he was starting to get the little visual hallucinations – and sometimes auditory ones – that meant he'd been pushing himself too long on too little resources and too little sleep. He worried now that there was no handler coming for him, that he would be left here to die, forgotten. He considered leaving the lab room, to go in search of someone, then felt frustration as he realized there was no where else he could reach in the condition he was now in. He spent a couple of hours pacing around the edges of the room, wearing himself out further, keeping his distance from the chair bolted down in the middle of the room. He didn't like to look too directly at the chair, keeping it in the corner of his eyes instead as he paced around and around and around it. He was staggering and nearly collapsing with exhaustion before finally retreating to his corner again, letting his body rest for a while until his agitated mind drove him back to his feet to pace again.

On what he thought was the fourth day he gave in and lay down in the chair, its cracked vinyl cushions a kindness to aching, shaking limbs after days on the hard floor. He had turned it to face the door, so he'd still see if someone came near. He drifted between awareness and unconsciousness, sometimes snatching a few minutes of real sleep before panic drove him back to the surface again.

His stomach cramped with hunger, but he was too tired to get up and go to the sink. He was dying, he thought.

He drifted, more blank than aware now, until the sound of whistling reached his ears. He lifted his head a little, and saw a face he knew coming towards him; battered, bruised, but still recognizable. Operative Rumlow. One of his handlers at long last, he thought, feeling both dread and relief. He dropped his head back against the headrest, and waited for orders.

* * *

Rumlow broke stride when he saw James lying stretched out on the chair, head lifted to look at him for a moment before dropping back to the cushions. His cheeks were gaunt and eyes sunken, his long hair lank and separated into greasy strands, his cheeks hairy enough to be starting to look more beard-like than stubble-like. His sprawled position was more reminiscent of collapse than relaxation. Brock's grip tightened on the edges of the tray as he walked closer, taking in more details, including the stench of unwashed body and ketone-laden breath.

"Mission report," he said as he stopped beside the chair, setting the tray down on the flat top of a nearby machine. Easiest if he kept to the routine James was used to, he thought; less chance of setting him off.

James started blankly up at him, then licked dry lips. "Mission failure," he said, voice raspy. "Targets survived."

Brock nodded, and looked over the food and drink on the tray, trying to guess what would be the best to give James to start. While he considered the question he righted a chair that was lying on its back nearby, sitting down beside him. On the one hand, he knew bland foods were better for someone who'd been fasting for too long. On the other hand, James' enhanced metabolism meant he needed a lot of calories a day, so something high in fats and sugars as well as nutrients was better for him. He decided to try him out with a pudding cup and juice to start, and hope he could keep it down. He peeled back the foil lid and stuck a plastic spoon in it, then held it out, speaking the nonsense words that signalled the Winter Soldier that it was okay to eat. "Slowly," he added sternly as James reached for the cup with shaking hands.

James managed all of the pudding and several gulps of the juice before grimacing and turning his head away. "Had enough?" Brock asked. James nodded, his eyes drifting shut; so exhausted he couldn't even remain alert. That worried Brock even more than his half-starved appearance did.

"Soldier," he said, loudly. James started and turned to look at him, one hand twitching towards his weapons before he recognized Brock again. "Can you walk? I can help you walk if you're unable to do so on your own. We can't stay here; this base has been compromised."

James gave him a long, blank-eyed stare; thinking it over, figuring out an acceptable response, he guessed. "I can walk," he finally said, eyes flicking over to the tray of food and drink, a brief look of longing flickering over his features.

Brock scooped a handful of things – snack-packs of crackers and peanut butter or soft cheese, some breakfast bars and the like – and held them up where James could see them. He repeated the nonsense words. "I'm going to put them away in your pockets, you can eat them as you're able to," he said. James watched blankly as Brock stowed them away, distributed between a couple of the pouches on James' gear harness and a cargo pocket on the side of his leg.

James got to his feet on his own, but was clearly unsteady, weak from days without food. Brock hovered, restraining the urge to reach out and steady him. "There's someone you'll see when we reach the main room that you may recognize," he told him. "A man you encountered on your recent mission. He's working with me; don't harm him."

James gave him that flat-eyed stare again, then nodded. "This way," Brock said, and took the lead, trusting the Soldier to follow him, and to be more comfortable at his back than the reverse.

"Wilson?" he called out as they drew close to the cafeteria. "We're coming out. No sudden moves, all right?"

"You got it," Wilson called back.

When he reached the door to the cafeteria, he saw that Wilson was making himself as non-threatening as possible, given the bodies scattered everywhere – standing out in the middle of the room, well away from everything, his arms held out to the sides in a T-position, hands open and empty. He'd clearly been busy while Brock was gone; the living had been sorted from the dead, laid out along one side of the room on vinyl tableclothes stripped from the tables, their wounds tended as best as Sam could manage with insufficient supplies. He could tell the moment James moved into Sam's line of sight – Sam's eyes moved from him to someone behind him, his face, his whole body, going still and tense. Sam sucked in a breath, held it, biting his lip. Brock heard a safety click off behind him.

"I told you he'd be here, Soldier," he said, keeping his voice calm and his own hands in view. "He's working with me." He walked a few paces forward, entering the room, before slowly turning to look back, putting his own hands out to the sides as well.

James was leaning with one shoulder braced against the wall to steady himself, a gun held up in both hands and pointing at Sam, finger curled around the trigger. His eyes flicked back and forth from Wilson to Brock and back again, that blank look on his face again; processing things. Coming to a decision.

"This is Sam Wilson. He was never your mission," Brock said quietly. "You don't have to shoot him. I'd prefer you didn't."

For a long, worrisome moment everything was still and silent, and then James lowered the gun, finger slipping free of the trigger guard as he thumbed the safety back on.

* * *

He knew that face. He'd fought that man, dragged him out of the sky and torn off his wing, cast him down. But the look the man was giving him was calm, thoughtful, and his hands were empty. Even with a gun pointed at him, he didn't look frightened; even as the asset watched, the tension in him went away, his head cocking slightly to one side, a look of concern crossing his face as he looked the asset over.

It was that as much as his handler's calm words that made him lower the weapon; that, and the memory of the man that the black man had been helping. A face he knew and yet didn't know, a voice that made him _feel_ things again, rage and anger and despair and some other more painful feeling. _You're my friend, and I'm with you to the end of the line._ He hadn't killed his target, he remembered, though he'd come close to it; had in fact dragged him out of the river rather than leaving him to drown. He glanced at Rumlow for a moment, hoping his handler didn't know, wondering what punishment he might have earned if he did. But Rumlow's expression didn't change, and when he turned and resumed walking, the asset followed him into the room.

It was clear what his handler meant about the base being compromised; bodies lay everywhere, most dead, a few alive. By the signs of recent damage to Rumlow, and the way the living were all bound, he assumed that Rumlow had been on the opposite side of the fight from those who were down. That... felt wrong, somehow. This was a HYDRA base; why would his handler be attacking it? Unless these people had not been HYDRA? But then why were they here...

"Let's get out of here," Rumlow said, and gestured to the black man. "You better lead off."

"Right," the one named Sam said, looking back and forth between Rumlow and the asset, then headed for the hallway that led to the facility's entrance. "How are we going to let the authorities know to come and clean up all this?" he asked as he walked away, turning his head to direct the question to Rumlow.

"I've got an emergency beacon and a smoke marker; I figure we leave the doors open and set those off right before we leave. Someone should come to check it out; local police or the staff from the preserve, if no one else."

"The doors can be left open?"

"They're not supposed to be, but I spent enough time here when I was a fledgling operative to know how to rig the panels for it." They'd reached the main entry room by then; Rumlow went around behind the desk and touched some controls, opening the first door, then crawled underneath the desk. There was the sounds of him working on something under there, then the crackling sound and ozone smell of something shorting out. The far door opened as well. "That's done it," Rumlow said as he emerged from under the desk, sounding satisfied. "Everybody out."

It was late at night, the stars glittering overhead in a cloudless sky, a gibbous moon washing the landscape with faint light, more than enough to see by even without cloudscatter from nearby towns and cities. The asset turned in a full circle, scanning carefully for cover, for danger, for potential targets, while the other two men talked quietly.

"You're sure you can carry two?" Rumlow asked, accepting a bundle of straps from the black man. A harness of some kind; he shook it out and began strapping it on over his clothing.

"Yeah, though not for long. We might need to leapfrog a little, I'm not sure... these are more powerful than my old set. You sure you can keep our friend calm in flight?" Wilson asked, looking at the asset, eyebrows scrunching together in a faintly worried expression.

_I'm your friend_, he remembered, and this was the second person he could remember referring to him by that word recently, though it didn't cause the wave of confusing emotions that it did when the target had said it.

"I'm pretty sure I can," Rumlow said, then turned to look at him as well, gesturing for him to come nearer. "Wilson is going to fly us away," he explained. "He'll need to attach some cables to us to distribute the weight, and then we'll be in the air for a while. You'll need to stay calm and not fight. Do you understand?"

He nodded, and stood passively as Rumlow strapped a harness on over his gear as well, after which the two men unspooled lengths of cable from Wilson's harness, clipping them to D-rings at reinforced points on the harnesses he and Rumlow wore. He ended up sandwiched between the two men, Rumlow at his back and Wilson facing him, which made him feel a little uneasy but not too much so; he had enough sketchy memories of working with Rumlow over the years to provisionally trust him even when he was out of sight. Better him at his back than Wilson.

"Beacon?" Wilson asked, looking over the asset's shoulder at Rumlow before pulling a pair of red-tinted goggles up from around his neck to cover his eyes.

"One sec," Rumlow said. The asset felt the tugging of the harness as Rumlow shifted around, then heard the clatter of something hitting the ground nearby. He turned his head to look and saw a metal canister rolling around on the flat roof of the little cement-block building, already beginning to spew sparks and smoke. "Go," Rumlow said.

Wings snapped out from the pack on Wilson's back, there was a sudden strong upwards tug on the harness, a disorienting change in altitude and attitude, and then they were flying, the asset and Rumlow suspended face-up beneath the man. Rumlow clutched onto him, which made him tense for a moment, and then feel... oddly safe, wrapped in his handler's arms, Rumlow's voice talking quietly almost in the asset's ear, telling him to be quiet, to remain still. He could see the starry sky above them, feel the wind of their passage fluttering his hair. He closed his eyes, wishing he had his mask and goggles on to prevent the long strands from lashing at his skin and eyes. Days of exhaustion and deprivation caught up with him. He was finally with one of his handlers, he had food in his belly, he had no nearby target... he sank down, down into the black and silence.

* * *

Sam scanned the horizon, picking out the lights of the distant highway, then glanced downwards to the two men suspended beneath him. The Winter Soldier had his eyes closed and had gone lax; asleep or unconscious. Probably the safest thing for him to be right now; Sam didn't want to even _think_ about how ugly things could get if the guy freaked out on them mid-flight. Rumlow had his arms wrapped around Barnes, not constraining him, just holding on, head craned to one side, lips moving as he talked into one ear, the wind whipping the sounds away without Sam being able to make out what he was saying.

He returned his attention to their flight path, keeping as low as he could to make them less likely to be spotted by anyone. The wings were taking the burden of the three of them really well; rah-rah for Stark tech, he supposed. They made it to the woods behind the motel in a single flight, the indicators projected onto the inside of his goggles never having come anywhere close to exceeding safe tolerances.

Landing the three of them was a lot more tricky than the take-off had been; he had to go into a hover, then tilt and lower until Rumlow got his feet on the ground, cutting back quickly on lift as Rumlow took his own weight rather than dangling freely. Barnes didn't wake at all as Rumlow took his weight, which worried Sam almost as much as it relieved him. The guy didn't look at all well, and by his gaunt appearance and the whiff of acetone on his breath, he was definitely suffering from starvation, his body cannibalizing its own muscle mass to keep vital organs functioning.

Between the two of them they got themselves all unstrapped and lifted Barnes in a two-handed seat carry between the pair of them. "Should we stay here overnight, or move on right away?" Sam asked as they began making their way towards the parking lot."Your boy probably needs medical attention."

"Safer if we move on right away," Rumlow said. "I have a safe house over on the Patuxent we can head to – one of my own, not through SHIELD or HYDRA. It's a little over an hour's drive away."

"Fine. Let's get him into the car and go, then. Are you driving or am I?"

"You better drive; probably safer for all of us if I'm in back with him, in case he wakes up again."

Getting Barnes' unconscious body into the back seat of the car was not exactly easy, but between the two of them they managed it. Sam stripped out of his wings and strapped them into the front passenger seat while Rumlow settled into the back, Barnes' head resting in his lap. Sam ducked into the motel room long enough to use the toilet and grab all their things, dropping it all into the passenger-side leg well, then climbed into the driver's seat. "So where am I heading?" he asked, looking at Rumlow in the rear-view mirror.

"Head for the bridge at Benedict, I'll give you more detailed directions once we're there," Rumlow said.

"Got it," Sam said, and backed out of their parking space.


	4. Recovery

The asset recognized the feel of a vehicle in motion even before he fully woke, stiffening as he realized he was lying with his head resting on someone's thigh, their hand resting on his left shoulder where metal joined flesh.

"Easy, Soldier," a familiar voice said. "Stand down." Rumlow, he remembered, but struggled to move to an upright position anyway, not liking the helpless feeling that lying down gave him.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," someone said. The driver, dark eyes glancing to meet his in the rear view mirror. _This is Sam Wilson. He was never your mission._ He wedged himself back into the corner where seat and door nearly met, where he could see both of the other occupants of the car at the same time.

"Next left, and then all the way to the end," Rumlow said to Wilson, then turned to look at the asset. "Hungry again?"

"Yes," he said, even as his stomach gurgled loudly at the thought of more food. He opened one of the pouches where Rumlow had put food earlier, taking out a clear plastic container that was divided into two compartments, one with crackers and one filled with a stiff brown paste. He tore it open, scraping out the paste with one thumb and then popping the sticky lump of it into his mouth, eyes half-closing in pleasure at the rich oily salt-sweet taste of it. _Peanut butter_, some part of him identified.

"Slowly," Rumlow ordered him. Abashed, he nibbled at the crackers, chewing each morsel carefully before swallowing. He was working his way through a second container when the car eased to a stop beside a darkened building; a small house or cottage, surrounded by trees, and beyond it a slope down to a body of water. He could see the far shore; a river, most likely, unless they'd driven a much further distance than he thought likely.

"Nice place," Wilson said as he opened his door and moved to get out.

"Not really," Rumlow said as he opened his own and did the same. "Come on, Soldier."

The asset looked at the door to his left, then opened it and got out of the car as well, feeling uneasy when he found himself standing beside Wilson.

"I'll get our luggage," Wilson said, moving away from him, walking around the nose of the car to get to the passenger side door. He stood and watched him go, then glanced at Rumlow, who seemed unconcerned by Wilson's independent activities, and decided to take his cue from his handler for now. He followed him from the car along the short walkway to the steps up to the porch. The boards were thick with wind-blown dirt and fallen leaves; it had been a while since anyone was last here. He stepped to one side, where he could watch both Rumlow and Wilson at the same time, Wilson leaning into the car on the passenger side to gather things up.

Rumlow reached up above the door frame, tugging on something there; a little loop of chain, running down into a gap between the frame and the siding. There was a key on the end of it. He used it to unlock the door, then returned it to where he'd taken it from. "Come on in," he invited, then led the way indoors. The asset gave Wilson an uncertain look, then stepped inside and swiftly moved to have his back to the wall beside the door before looking warily around.

The place was mostly one big room, with a fireplace and living area at one end and a kitchen at the other. Steep stairs – almost a ladder – led up to a small loft area over the kitchen; he guessed there was a bedroom up there. There were two doors on the opposite side, one leading into a small room tucked in beside the kitchen – pantry or bathroom, he guessed – and another leading out to a deck overlooking the river that he could glimpse though the windows on that side of the building. He liked the openness of the space; plenty of good sight-lines, and some nice heavy furniture to take cover behind if necessary.

Rumlow walked over to the kitchen area, before bending down to grasp and pull on a ring set in the floor, lifting up a hinged section of floorboards; a trap door. "I'll be right back," Rumlow said, glancing over to him. "The fuse box and pipe cutoffs are all in the cellar."

He nodded, watching as Rumlow descended a set of stairs that he couldn't see from where he stood, Uneasily he moved closer, circling the opening at a distance until he could see down into the room beneath the house. There was a series of clicking sounds, and then a light turned on down below, lighting up a small stone-walled room lined with shelves filled with supplies – cans and bottles and boxes of things.

He heard the front door open and flinched back against the cupboards, starting to reach for his weapons before he recognized that it was Wilson coming in, carrying several bags and his wing pack. Wilson froze as well, and they just stood and stared at each other for a long moment.

"I'm just going to move over into the living room and put these down," Wilson said, voice calm and tone soothing, then edged sideways away from the door, before carefully and slowly crouching down enough to set down his burdens. When he straightened up again – also slowly – he moved his hands out to the sides first, showing they were empty.

Rumlow re-emerged from the cellar, stopping when he caught sight of the asset. He leaned to one side to look around the side of the trap door at Wilson. "It's just Wilson," he said, turning to look at the asset again. "Stand down; he won't try to hurt you."

The asset looked warily back and forth between them, then remembered his decision just minutes earlier to take his cues from Rumlow for now. "_Da_," he muttered, forcing himself to go off alert again. He shuddered as his muscles relaxed, his eyesight going tunnel-visioned as he fought to stay upright. It was a surprise to feel himself dropping down to his knees; an unpleasant surprise, that left him feeling alarmed and frightened, even more so as he slumped forward, vision darkening. _Poison?_ he wondered.

"_Shit!_" he heard Rumlow exclaim, as he dropped down into blackness again.

* * *

"Is he going to be all right?" Brock asked anxiously, watching as Wilson nervously examined James, keeping his touches as light and brief as possible.

"Maybe. He has a healing factor, right? Something like what Steve has?"

"Yeah, something like."

"Then I'd say he'll probably be fine, considering I watched the Captain recover from being gutshot in less then forty-eight hours time. Our friend here is starved, exhausted, maybe a little dehydrated, more than a little stressed out... but basically healthy, and if we can get food and water into him and let him rest, he should recover just fine. Physically, anyway, I can't even begin to guess how mentally messed up he must be."

"That end of things is probably pretty bad," Brock said, voice grim. "At least judging by what I've seen of his treatment over the years."

"Oh? Like what kind of treatment?" Wilson asked, looking up at Brock from where he was kneeling on the floor beside James. "And I'm asking out of professional curiosity, not..."

Brock made a gesture, cutting him off. "Yeah, I know, traumatized vets are your thing," he said, and turned, taking a couple of paces away before turning back, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "Can we move him somewhere more comfortable first? I need a couple of minutes and a good stiff drink before I'm up to speaking about any of it."

Wilson gave him an evaluative look, then nodded. "Fair enough. I think we can probably move him without waking him; he went down hard again. An hour in the car didn't even _begin_ to take the edge off his sleep deficit, I'm guessing. Couch?"

"Yeah," Brock agreed. With the aid of a heavy blanket, its long edges rolled up to serve as a makeshift stretcher, they managed to shift him from the kitchen floor to the couch over in the living area.

"That was easier than getting him in the car was, at least," Wilson observed, standing beside the couch and frowning down at James. "When he wakes we need to get him to eat as much real food as he can handle; some crackers and peanut butter aren't going to cut it if his healing uses up as much energy as it does with Steve. Though the peanut butter itself isn't too bad in terms of calorie and nutrient load."

Brock nodded agreement as he took out glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Not a particularly good whiskey; on the rare times when he drank, he was generally more concerned about the strength of it than the taste or the expense. He splashed equal quantities in both glasses, then held one in Wilson's direction. Wilson looked at it for a moment, then walked over to take it from him. "Thanks."

"You won't say that once you've tasted it," he said, and drank off half of his, grimacing even as he reached for the bottle to top it up again before carrying his drink into the living area and lowering himself into one of the armchairs, positioned so he could keep an eye on James. Wilson followed, having only taken a single small sip of his own drink, and took the other armchair.

Brock frowned down at the glass in his hands, organizing his thoughts, before looking at Wilson again. "I said before that he's a very well-trained attack dog. You probably know there's two kinds of dog trainers; those who train an animal by becoming friends with it and rewarding its good behaviour, and those who train through punishment and don't give a flying fuck about the dog. From what little I know of it, most of his trainers and handlers have fallen into the latter category," he said, then took another drink – not as large as the initial slug – and looked across the room at where James lay, unconscious.

"They have this... machine. There was one back at that base; it looks kind of like a dentist's chair or a hairdresser's seat. Reclines. But there's a mechanism at the head end, lots of electrical contacts. I don't know how it works, only that it's something similar to electroshock therapy, and when they use it on him... he forgets. Selectively. He keeps learned skills, things like languages and weapons use and everything like that, that's all untouched, but most of his memories of who he is, people he's known, what he's done... it pretty much all goes." He took another, larger gulp, forced himself to keep speaking, ignoring how thin and choked his voice had gone. "I was there the last time Pierce used it on him. The fucker _monologued_ at him about how invaluable his service was to HYDRA – told him he'd shaped the century. And then wiped him. When the machine turned on, he _screamed_..."

He had to stop then, ignoring the faint shaking of his hand as he took a sip of his drink. "That's why he's never recognized me... they wiped him, at least once and probably more, between when he'd been recaptured and when I finally saw him again. The James I knew... he's gone, erased like he never existed, like he and I..." He had to stop again.

"That's pretty rough," Wilson said quietly when the silence began to stretch out too long. "Both for you and for him."

"Yeah. Worse for him, in my opinion. To those of HYDRA who actually know he's real, he's just... a thing. A weapon. The asset. He's a rumour to everyone else. The Winter Soldier. A ghost story. Not real. None of them see him as _human_."

"Except you," Wilson pointed out.

"Only because I first met him when he was actually lucid. He isn't always. I think a lot of the time he doesn't see himself as human either. A lot of the time he's just... blank. All that exists for him is his mission, and completing it satisfactorily. Nothing else matters; not damage to himself or others, nothing, just getting his target within mission parameters." He swirled his drink, staring down at it, then turned his head to look at Wilson. "He's human to only one other person I know of."

"Steve," Wilson acknowledged. "But you can add me to that list now too."

Brock gave him a crooked smile. "Good to hear. So, any recommendations on how we handle things?"

"Other than what I said earlier about food, drink, and plenty of rest? I really don't know. This is so god-damned far outside my area of expertise it might as well not even be on the same planet. But then there's probably very few people on earth with _any_ experience with the level of trauma he's been put through, much less over the length of time it's gone on for. I honestly don't know what to expect. Though the fact that you've seen him come back from this before? At least enough to be a functioning, more-or-less normal person? I'd say that gives me hope that he can do it again. That given enough time out of HYDRA's hands and away from that machine, that he can become his own person again, and not just a weapon. Whether that person will bear any resemblance to the Bucky that Steve knew, or the James that you did... again, I can't say. Our personalities are so dependant on so many things, including our life experiences to date and our memories of them." Wilson frowned, and fiddled for a moment with his own drink, then looked across the room at where James lay sleeping. "First priority is his physical well-being. That's something concrete we can work on. His mental well-being will likely be a much more long-term project."

Brock nodded. "And not something I'm going to be able to stick around for. Once HYDRA figures out I've taken him, they're going to start hunting me down; as soon as he'll begin accepting food from someone other than myself, I need to vanish, get as far away from him as possible so I don't lead them to him."

"Steve should be back in town in two, maybe three days," Wilson said thoughtfully. "Though he'll likely be trying to contact me before then, to arrange to meet him at the airport. When he doesn't get an answer... I'm not sure what he'll do. But I doubt it'll be very long after he gets in town before he's at my place and seeing that I'm not there. After that? Well, he is an Avenger; he's got resources he can draw on even with SHIELD out of the picture."

"Stark," Brock said, grimacing.

"Among others, yeah. You know, it might make things easiest if we contact them before things go that far."

Brock shook his head. "You think that Rogers will keep his distance when he hears you're with his childhood friend? Worse, that both of you are with _me?_ I don't see that happening, and I have no interest in being anywhere within miles of him. Our last few encounters weren't exactly what you might call _cordial_."

Wilson grinned briefly at him. "No, they weren't, were they. On the other hand, I think he's less likely to react badly to hearing from me than to having to try hunting me down."

Brock grimaced. "True. Okay... you said two or three days, right? Even if it's just two, it'll take time for Rogers to decide he needs to call for backup, and then more time for Stark to start turning some of his technological resources onto the problem and get any results. So once we hit the point where he's likely looking for you – _then_ you can contact him. Hopefully either James doesn't require my presence by then, or you can buy us a little extra time."

"All right," Wilson agreed, then yawned. "And that's the sign that I'm up well past my bed time."

"You can use the bed up in the loft if you want to; I'd better stay down here so that I'm the first person he sees on waking."

Wilson nodded, finished his drink and rose to his feet. He walked over to the kitchen area to rinse his glass and put it in the draining board, then picked up his duffle and went up to the loft. Brock nursed the remains of his own drink for a while, watching James sleep and trying to convince himself that it'd all work out well in the end.

* * *

The asset woke remembering having dreamed, something rare in his experience; both the sleeping, and the dreaming. It was a rare mission that ran long enough for him to require sleep. He opened his eyes, only mildly surprised to find himself lying on his back on something soft, looking up at exposed rough-hewn rafters, a kind of ceiling he somehow knew he'd seen more than once before. Memories followed, not just of arriving here with Rumlow and the other man the night before, but other memories, _older_ memories, of waking up to army tents, wooden barn and sheds, cracked and stained cement, luxurious high-ceilinged rooms flooded with light, the water-stained slanted plaster ceiling of garret room, surgical lights and pain, reinforced steel walls and ceiling, the rough stone ceiling of a cave, the scum-stained curved brick interior of an ancient sewer, trees boughs and starlight and snow... a parade of locations, disjointed and unrelated.

He drew in a gasping breath, overwhelmed by the deluge of memories, jerking spasmodically as some part of him tried to flee or fight or in some other way react to the cascade. He forced himself back to stillness, steadied his breathing after that first noisy gasp to a silent even rhythm, suppressed the sounds that wanted to form in and escape from his throat to remain potential only, not anything actually voiced.

He smelled food cooking, something rich and meaty in smell that made his mouth flood with saliva and his stomach cramp painfully. A sound did escape him then, just a small one.

"You're awake," a familiar voice called from the far end of the room, the area under the loft. His handler. Rumlow. "Hungry?"

He did not answer, but sat up, looking around quickly, automatically taking inventory of his surroundings, categorizing everything in sight based on its usefulness as a weapon or shelter or both. There was no sign of the other man around, the black man, the one who flew, but a whisper of sound from the loft betrayed his position. He looked up, cocking his head slightly as he listened. Snoring, perhaps.

"Wilson's asleep in the loft," Rumlow said, voice calm. "He's no threat. Okay?"

He turned his attention to Rumlow, and stilled as another flood of memories washed over him. Rumlow at various ages, mostly dressed in combat gear; providing him backup, handing him rations and a water bottle, driving a vehicle, singing along with the radio and flashing a warm smile at the asset as he did so. A young man, blond but with dark roots and, the asset somehow knew, even darker hair trailing down his stomach and curling at the base of his cock, with Rumlow's face, but young, so young. Lying on a rumpled bed, and smiling warmly at him. The same smile as when he'd been singing, and almost the same smile as he gave the asset now as Rumlow walked across the room toward him, a laden tray in his hands. _Brock_. A surge of unidentifiable emotion that cut off and subsided as quickly as it had rose.

Rumlow set the tray down on one end of the heavy wood coffee table beside the couch that the asset was on, plunked himself down on the other end. "You're to eat as much of that as you can manage," he said. "And then rest some more." And made the series of sound that allowed the asset to reach hungrily for the nearest dish, a plate of toasted bread, little globules of melted butterfat glistening in the amber-gold honey it was spread with. He ate the first slice in two large bites, the second in three.

"Slower," Rumlow reminded him as he reached for the bowl on the tray. "Or you'll be sicking it all back up again."

He forced himself to slow, to sip at the thick soup in the bowl rather than gulping it down, ignoring the spoon set on the tray beside it and the shaking of his hands that threatened to slop the soup down his chin. He drank all of it, then ate the contents of a small bowl of mixed nuts, washing down the oily salty goodness of them with sips from a large glass of milk that had the odd slightly caramelized flavour that meant it had been mixed from dried powder. He felt almost uncomfortably full by then, but there was still food on the tray, a small plate with a handful of dried fruit on it, slices of apple and pear and peach, and some bright orange fruit that he didn't know the name of but could remember the taste of, the dense sour-sweet texture and slightly fuzzy wrinkled surface. He scooped up the handful of fruit, shooting a wary glance at Rumlow as he curled on his side on the couch, nibbling on a leathery apple slice. But Brock merely smiled, and carried the tray away.

He drifted for a while then, phasing in and out of consciousness, nibbling on his fruit when he was awake enough to, and when that was done, eating other things Rumlow brought him. He was eating a sandwich and more of the soup when he heard sounds from the loft, and wasn't surprised when the other man, Wilson, appeared at the top of the stairs, with the semi-aware look of someone only just awake.

"I smell food," Wilson said loudly as he descended the stairs, looking the asset over from head to toe before turning his head in the direction of the kitchen.

"There might be some left," Rumlow said.

"Is there coffee?" Wilson asked hopefully.

"There is, but if you take it white there's a choice of milk from dried, or powdered creamer."

Wilson actually stopped walking for a moment, and shuddered theatrically. "That edible oil stuff? Pass. I'll take it black."

Rumlow handed him a mug, and Wilson filled it himself, grimaced after tasting it and hastily added some sugar before trying it again. He drank some of it, then set it down on the counter and moved around finding dishes and cutlery and serving himself from the pots on the stove. "He eat?" the asset heard him ask.

"Yeah," Brock answered. "I've been getting food and drink into him every time he's awake enough for it."

"Good," Wilson said, and carried his own food and drink over to the table, sitting down and eating rapidly but neatly. "How are we on groceries?" he asked as Rumlow joined him at the table, a coffee mug of his own cradled in his hands.

"Good, on anything that can be stored long-term. I'll have to make a grocery run if we want anything fresh, though I'd prefer not to; HYDRA may already be looking for me."

The asset frowned slightly at that. He and Rumlow belonged to HYDRA; why would his handler sound worried over their owners finding them? But then he remember the scene in the cafeteria at the bunker the night before, and that Wilson was _not_ HYDRA – was opposed to it, if anything, along with the man from the helicarrier...

Another cascade of memories, all centred on that man. _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You've known me your whole life. _This time he could not stop a sound from leaving him.

* * *

A low cry from the living room had both Sam and Rumlow on their feet. Barnes was curled up in a tight ball on the couch, shuddering and making choked-off noises of distress. They both started toward him, then Sam stopped, knowing better than to rush toward a combat-trained veteran who was having some sort of panic attack or flashback. Rumlow moved closer, but also stopped when still several long steps away from the couch.

"Soldier!" Rumlow snapped out in a commanding tone of voice. Barnes twitched and partially uncurled, then rolled up tight again. "Soldier, mission report!"

The distressed noises transformed into a low keen, then cut off abruptly as he went limp. Rumlow took a couple of steps closer, then his shoulders slumped. "He's out," he said.

Sam moved forward then, pausing beside Rumlow to look Barnes over before moving close enough to crouch down and check his pulse and breathing, ready to jump back if the unconscious man woke again. His skin was cool and a little clammy, his body almost bonelessly lax, and he didn't react at all, even when Sam gently thumbed his eyelids open to check his pupils.

"He okay?" Rumlow asked.

"I think so. I'm not sure what that was; bad flashbacks maybe. He's out again, though I don't think it was a physical collapse this time. Or at least not entirely physical."

"Anything we can do for him?"

Sam sighed and shook his head. "Same as before; feed him when he wakes, let him sleep as much as he can. I'll add keep him warm to that list," he said.

Rumlow nodded, and covered him with the blanket they'd used as a stretcher the night before.

"You should take a rest for a while too," Sam told him. "I'll finish my breakfast and then see about preparing some more food."

Rumlow nodded again, then moved to sit down on the nearest armchair, reclining it back. Sam returned to the kitchen, sitting down to finish his meal. By the time he'd had seconds – the food wasn't bad, for stuff from cans and boxes – Rumlow was asleep. Sam put together a tray of the leftovers, then washed up, making no effort to be quiet about it; trying to move around quietly was more likely to wake the two than 'normal' sounds would, he knew from personal experience.

He checked the contents of the fridge and cabinets, then went down into the cellar to see what was available there, checking the contents of the sizable freezer before gathering up a few cans, bags and boxes before returning upstairs, where he began preparing a meal; canned stew, to which he added things like some elderly but still usable herbs and spices, as well as a generous amount of frozen and canned vegetables. He mixed up some biscuit dough from a box, adding shredded cheese to the dough along with some herbs and dried onions that he'd reconstituted with a little hot water. Once those were baking he puttered around the kitchen cleaning up after himself, then got ambitious and started on a dessert, putting dried fruit to simmer with water and spices in another saucepan. The smell of cloves and cinnamon was just becoming noticeable when he heard movement from the living room, and looked over to see Barnes moving to sit up properly on the couch, focused at first on Rumlow sleeping nearby before suddenly turning to stare at Sam.

Sam froze; it wasn't a focused stare, more like what he'd call a thousand yard one; whatever Barnes was seeing, it wasn't necessarily him. He froze, and then slowly put his hands up and out to the side again, licking his lips nervously. "Rumlow?" he called. Barnes rose, not all the way up but into a crouch, ready to move in any direction, hands hovering near his weapons, eyes now focusing on Sam. "Hey, Rumlow!" Sam chanced calling a second time, a little louder.

Rumlow twitched, then opened his eyes and sat up a little, enough to see the tableau in front of him. "Soldier!" he immediately snapped out, as much as he could snap with a voice rough from not enough sleep. "Stand down; it's just Wilson."

Barnes looked back and forth between them, then slowly straightened. "Wilson," he said in a flat tone of voice.

"Yeah, that's right; Sam Wilson," Sam said, keeping his voice as reassuring as he could make it. "You should remember me; the one with the wings."

Barnes cocked his head a little to one side. He was standing loose and easy now, hands hanging empty at his side. "I remember your wings. I tore one off."

"That's right," Sam agreed calmly as he slowly lowered his own hands. "Though that wasn't last night. Last night we flew together."

"I remember that," Barnes said softly, a brief look of wonder crossing his face. "There were stars."

Sam couldn't help grinning at that. He'd always loved night-flying, though it was a rare mission that required it. "Yeah, they're real pretty, aren't they? Are you hungry again yet? I cooked."

Barnes turned to look at Rumlow, who was pushing himself to his feet, moving like sleeping on the recliner had left him sore and stiff. Though that just as well could have been a result of his still-healing injuries. "Smells good," Rumlow said. "Why don't you dish us up some while the Soldier and I go take a piss."

"Sure," Sam agreed, and turned away, moving to set the table, putting down a cork hotpad to place the pot of stew on and then transferring the warm biscuits to a platter to set down beside it. Rumlow and Barnes returned just as he was giving the stewed fruit a stir. Sam fought down the urge to wrinkle his nose at the unwashed stink that still hung around Barnes. Not that he and Rumlow were exactly fresh as daisies either, but they'd at least showered some time in the last day or two.

Rumlow subtly guided Barnes into sitting down at the table. Barnes looked at the food with evident hunger, but didn't reach for anything, his hands curling up in his lap.

"Mind being the host tonight?" Rumlow asked Sam, eyes flicking from Barnes to the food and back again before meeting Sam's.

"Of course," Sam said, and ladled stew into the soup plates as Rumlow handed them to him, after which he served biscuits to all three of them as well. Barnes watched the food being passed around with an anxious expression, like a starved dog watching someone else eating. He kept darting nervous looks at Rumlow, his hands remaining in his lap through they were now clenched together, fingers of his flesh hand closed tightly around the fingers of his metal one. "These are the words to say," Rumlow told Sam, as he picked up his spoon, then looked at Barnes and carefully enunciated the string of nonsense words.

Sam repeated them aloud, then they both watched as Barnes looked back and forth between them, hand starting to reach for his food and then retreating.

"It's all right, man, you're allowed to eat," Sam told him softly, and said the words again, echoed by Rumlow. This time when Barnes moved, he picked up a biscuit, taking a small bite out of it while still looking back and forth between them.

"That's right, slowly," Rumlow said approvingly, before spooning up some of his own bowl of stew.

It was a largely silent meal, Barnes just watching them nervously from behind the fall of his greasy hair as he methodically worked his way through all the food he was given, sitting motionless once his bowl was empty until Sam served him more, Sam and Brock both saying the words that signalled him that he was allowed to eat. He was starting to nod off at the table by the time he'd eaten two bowls of stew and four biscuits; Rumlow ordered him to go lie down and sleep again, which he did, seemingly asleep again almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Rumlow helped with washing up from the meal, the stew going back on the stove on the simmer element while the leftover biscuits were wrapped in a clean towel and put aside for later.

"Dessert now or later?" Rumlow asked as he dried and put away the last dish.

Sam couldn't help but grin at the hopeful note in the man's voice. "How about later? I think we have the ingredients for me to make some gingerbread to go with the stewed fruit."

Rumlow looked surprised, then managed a brief smile. "_Definitely_ later then," he said. "I think there might be some ice cream in the freezer that we could have with it as well."

"Maybe save that for later. Listen, any chance we can get him cleaned up some? Not to put too fine a point on it, but he reeks, badly enough for me to be worrying a little about the possibility of sores under all that armour. Not to mention whatever passengers he might have picked up while wandering around."

Rumlow grimaced. "Might be doable, but I can't guarantee how calmly he'll take it; as far as I know, mostly he just gets hosed down with cold water before they stick him back in the cryofreezer. I think the chances of him having had a proper bath or shower since back when he lived with me are slim to none."

Sam paused, staring at him for a long moment. "That's fucked up," he said firmly. "I guess about all we can do is try. Try it next time he wakes? A little food, get him cleaned up as much as we can, then more food and right back to bed."

"We can try," Rumlow agreed. "I've got some clothing upstairs, should be something that'll fit him."

* * *

Bathing the Winter Soldier went surprisingly easily. There was a couple of false starts, while they worked out whether he needed help getting cleaned or could wash himself (the former), and once that was sorted out, whether he preferred just Rumlow in the bathroom with him or wanted them both where he could see them (the latter).

Rumlow did the lion's share of scrubbing him down, shampooing him, and shaving away the incipient beard, while Sam passed him things and kept up an easy flow of quiet chatter, more talking at the two men than anything like a real conversation, Barnes remaining entirely silent the whole time and Rumlow being too busy and distracted to talk much.

Barnes was clearly nervous and more than a little twitchy at first, and startled backwards, wide-eyed, when they first turned on the shower, but once he'd held out his flesh hand to feel the warmth of the running water his eyes went to a look more of wide-eyed wonder than fear, and he allowed Rumlow to direct him into standing under the flow of it. It took a couple rounds of soaping up and rinsing off before they were satisfied that he was clean, after which Rumlow got him to sit on the edge of the tub so he could lather up his face and neck and shave him. Barnes sat very still during that, eyes looking a little white around the edges and breathing a little fast at first, but slowly relaxing as nothing bad happened to him.

Sam took the opportunity of the bath to give Barnes a visual going-over, looking for signs of injury or infection. There were a few areas under his armour where his skin looked a little irritated, either from pressure and friction or possibly bacterial build-up, and a lot of old scars, especially around where his metal arm attached to his torso, but nothing obviously wrong with him. The arm, on the other hand, was clearly damaged, its interlocking plates warped out of shape in a couple of areas, preventing it from moving as smoothly as it should have.

As Rumlow had said about Barnes before, he cleaned up really well, once the scruff was scraped off. Handsome, if you didn't mind them long-haired and wild-eyed. Dressed in a loose-fitting pair of faded black sweat pants and a long-sleeved white tshirt, damp hair combed back from his face, he looked oddly vulnerable, though that might have been in part due to his body language. Not the confident swagger with which Sam remembered him striding into battle, but instead drawn in on himself, with shoulders hunched, head lowered and back curved as if he was trying to curl up a little, to hide himself, to protect his vulnerable areas now that he was out of his armour. He followed them back out to the main room meekly enough, resuming his seat on the couch.

"I'll get that gingerbread made," Sam said, retreating to the kitchen and leaving Barnes' care to Rumlow again.

* * *

The asset lay on the couch, not sleeping but with eyes half-closed, drifting a little again. He felt good, better than he had in days. Clean, and with a full stomach, a bowl with another chunk of spicy gingerbread covered in stewed fruit resting within reach for when he was hungry again, with permission to eat it when he was ready to. His handler had given him back most of his weapons,and even though he'd only been able to strap on a few of them, just having them back in reach made him feel much better, even if he still felt under-dressed.

His armour was currently all taken apart, the washable parts currently being washed and the rest sitting in a neat pile, waiting for either himself or Rumlow to clean by hand. Though since he hadn't been given an order to do so yet, and wasn't feeling agitated enough to need something to do with his hands, he was happy enough to just lie down and rest, keeping a wary eye on Wilson.

Rumlow had gone upstairs to rest, after telling him several times that Wilson would stay with him and that he was not to hurt him. He knew that was the kind of order he didn't really have to obey; one he had sometimes purposefully disobeyed at times in the past, killing people without orders or even on rare occasion against them, only sometimes earning punishment for it. But he didn't feel any need or desire to kill Wilson; Wilson was good about staying where he could see him, about moving slowly, about not coming too close to him or trying to touch him. He talked enough that the asset didn't forget that he was there, but didn't talk so much as to be irritating, and the things he talked about were mostly innocuous subjects; his wings and flying, music, the book he was reading, food. He had a pleasant voice, soothing, and smiled a lot; the sort of smile that reached his eyes, more than just a movement of his lips.

The asset sat up after a while and picked up his bowl of dessert, not feeling any particular hunger any more, but pleased to have the choice of eating it whenever he wanted to. He spooned up only a little of the stewed fruit and gingerbread, enjoying the mix of flavours in it, the spices and sugars and the rich butter-laden cake. Wilson looked up from his book at the movement, and smiled again. "Way you've been going through it, I think you'll have that entire pan of gingerbread finished by tomorrow."

That made the asset pause, wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing, and what sort of punishment might be due him if it was bad. He stared at his bowl of dessert, then looked toward the kitchen where the pan sat on the counter, covered with plastic film.

"I can make more," Wilson said quietly, then shifted in his seat, to a more upright position, closing and setting aside his tablet. "Maybe make something else. I make a mean gingerbread but I think more than one pan of it in a day might be pushing things." He rose then, and walked over to the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. "I could try making apple cake, though I'm not sure how well it'd work with dried apples. No eggs, so sponge or angelfood is out... oh, we have chocolate, maybe I'll make brownies – do you like chocolate, Barnes?"

"Yes," he said, and then froze, startled to realize he'd responded to something the other man had said when he wasn't even his handler, and wondering for a moment what chocolate even _was_, and how he knew he liked it, before another cascade of memories flooded his mind. His sister's chocolate birthday cake (_a sister?_) the year that his father had been making good money working down at the docks, the bitter flavour of the fragments of so-called-chocolate shaved off his D Ration,biting into a chocolate chip cookie still warm from the oven as a much younger Rumlow gave him a pleased smile, licking a spill of chocolate sauce off his thumb, noisily sipping the last of a chocolate milkshake through a straw in a soda joint as he made eyes across the room at a girl that he was pretty sure would let him fuck her later, splitting a 1-cent bar after school with... with... He could see the kid in his memories, shorter than him, with hair bleached almost white from the sun, nose dusted with a scattering of freckles, blue eyes huge in that too-thin face, but the name wouldn't come.

"Want to help?" Wilson asked, looking over from where he was lining up ingredients on the counter.

He didn't answer, but stood up and walked over, stopping a couple of feet away, fists knotting in the hem of his shirt, and looked from the ingredients on the counter to the man. Sam counted out squares of chocolate onto a small cutting board, then slid it along the counter towards him. "Think you can chop that up for me? Big chunks is fine. Use one of the kitchen knives," he added, gesturing at a nearby knife block. "Don't know where yours have been."

Part of him wanted to protest that he _wouldn't_ have used one of his own well-sharpened knives for such a menial purpose, but he stayed quiet and reached for a knife in the block, a good-sized knife, testing the edge and then arranging the squares in a row before he began chopping, rocking the knife up and down along it's curved edge, walking it along the board toward him with each cut, while Wilson unwrapped the remains of a block of butter, cutting it into chunks and dropping them into a metal bowl.

"I better get some more butter out of the freezer, or we won't have any to use for making breakfast tomorrow," Sam said, and leaned close to the asset for a moment, watching him chop. "Good work, looks like you know your way around a kitchen," he added approvingly, and then walked away to lift the trapdoor and disappear down into the cellar.

The asset continued chopping; this _was_ something he knew how to do, though the flood of memories was almost gentle this time, less emotionally charged; standing at counters, with different knives and different foods. Scraping and slicing carrots while he stood on a step-stool to be tall enough to help his... his mother? Grandmother? Some woman, anyway, bigger than him and with grey in her dark hair. Sweetening up the landlady by chopping up potatoes, carrots, celery, and other things, while she added them to a big pot steaming on the stove, telling her saucy stories while she smiled and laughed, flapped her apron at him and told him he was a very bad boy in her thick – Polish? Lithuanian? – accent. Squatting on the ground near a campfire, cigarette hanging out one corner of his mouth while cutting up some vegetables he and Morita had scavenged from an abandoned garden earlier that day, while Frenchie muttered to himself and plucked and cut up a scrawny chicken he'd procured from somewhere, the first real meat they'd seen in days. Steve's too-big hands deftly cutting an apple into slices, handing half of them to him, laughing at something Bucky had just said before popping a slice into his own mouth...

He froze, then, and somehow forced his mind away from that moment, knowing an avalanche lay in that direction. Knives. Think about knives. No, not that either, another trap just as dark and three times as dangerous...

"Barnes? You okay?"

He looked up, saw Wilson standing in the mouth of the trapdoor, halfway up the stairs, carrying some things in his hands. He forced his breathing to even out, made himself look at them, read their labels, think only of them. Butter. Vanilla ice cream. A frost-coated flat package that he thought was likely some kind of meat. He managed a shaky breath, nodded, and resumed chopping the chocolate, thinking only of the task itself.

* * *

Sam leaned against the door of the fridge, watching while Barnes stirred the pot of chicken stew. "Should we make dumplings to go with it?" he asked, and smiled when Barnes nodded, seeing it as a good sign that Barnes was willing to acknowledge and respond to him, even if so far his communication had mostly been shakes and nods and only a few rare monosyllabic replies. But he _was_ responding, and engaging in harmless activities, and that gave Sam a really good feeling. There was someone inside that head, someone who was acting more human and less like a weapon with every passing minute. Barnes was still hyper-vigilant and twitchy enough that Sam wouldn't have wanted to take him out into anywhere uncontrolled and public, but here, in the quiet isolation of the river-side cottage, he was doing okay.

Sam was getting together the ingredients for the dumplings when there was faint sounds up above them in the loft; Rumlow waking up again. He came down the stairs a minute later, looking around worriedly at first and then showing surprise once he caught sight of Barnes in the kitchen with Sam. Then he smiled. "Smells good," he said. "There coffee?"

"Coffee maker is set up," Sam told him, nodding toward it.

Rumlow nodded and walked over to hit the switch, then looked around the kitchen and took a deep, appreciative sniff of the air. "Smells good," he said. "You cook?"

Sam answered the unasked question. "We both did. Barnes here makes a good scullery maid; knows his way around a kitchen."

Rumlow smiled warmly at Barnes for a moment. "I remember that," he agreed, then looked out the windows, where midday sun was sparking off the river. "This sleeping at odd hours has me all twisted around. I'm wanting breakfast, and by the look of it you two have made dinner."

"There's still gingerbread and stewed fruit left if you want something sweet for breakfast," Sam pointed out. He'd had some earlier while the brownies were baking in the oven and the chicken thawing in the microwave, and tried to get Barnes to take more too, but the man hadn't been willing to eat without permission from Rumlow. Though he'd at least eaten the last of the snack packs of crackers and things retrieved from his gear. And hadn't needed any further naps yet; it looked like he'd moved beyond being in a state of near-collapse, and was recovering swiftly now that he'd rested and eaten properly, his cheeks already looking less gaunt, his skintone better.

"I smell something chocolate," Rumlow said.

Sam grinned. "We made brownies. But that's for later, _after_ the gingerbread is finished off. Why don't you and Barnes take care of that while I get the dumplings made?"

Rumlow nodded, catching what Sam was saying – start get Barnes properly fed again – and served up the last of the gingerbread and stewed fruit for the two of them, Barnes trailing him docilely over to the kitchen table to sit and eat. Rumlow looked pointedly at Sam as he said the nonsense words, Sam obediently echoing him.

Once the dumpling dough had been spooned into the pot and the lid placed back on, Sam carried the carafe and coffee and some mugs over to the table. "It'll be fifteen or twenty minutes for the dumplings to steam, I'm going to go jump in the shower," he said as he put them down.

Rumlow nodded acknowledgement as he reached for the coffee. "Okay, and thanks."

* * *

Brock stood at the counter drying the dishes, watching as Wilson fed James brownies a single piece at a time. Sam would hold out a square – he'd cut the pan into very small pieces – and say the release words. James would look at the brownie, and then look at Brock, and once Brock also said the words, take the piece and eat it, and then sit looking hopefully at the pan again. They'd gone through almost half the pan – including the pieces Sam and Brock had eaten – when James took a piece without waiting for Brock to also okay it. He didn't eat it – he froze, and darted a frankly frightened look at James – but he _did_ take it. Brock smiled warmly at him. "That's right, you can eat things Wilson gives you," he said approvingly, and spoke the release words again.

James just sat there, staring at the piece of brownie in his shaking hand, then suddenly dropped it, rose to his feet and stalked off to the far end of the room, where he began pacing agitatedly back and forth in front of the fireplace. Wilson and Brock exchanged looks.

"Just leave him to it," Sam said quietly. "I would think his conditioning starting to break down would be very confusing and even frightening to him."

Brock finished drying the dishes and put them away, then poured the last of the coffee into his mug and set up the machine for a fresh pot. "Coffee?" he asked, finger on the switch.

Wilson shook his head. "Nah, I'm good," he said. "I'm going to need to crash soon. It's already been a long day for me."

Rumlow nodded, then walked over to sit down and snag some more brownies for himself. Wilson was leaning back in his own chair, arms crossed and head tilted back, looking like he might drift off to sleep right there. Rumlow was just taking a third brownie when James suddenly returned to the table, his movements as quiet as the ghost he was sometimes labelled as. He sat down, picked up the brownie he'd dropped earlier, and ate it, darting looks back and forth between the two of them as he took little mouse-nibbles from it.

Wilson, who'd lifted his head to watch him when he returned, smiled warmly at him. "Good," he said, and when James looked at the pan offered him another piece. This time James took it as soon as Sam said the release words, though he watched Rumlow warily for a moment before taking a very small bite of it.

"Good," Brock said as well, feeling relieved that it had worked; relief, and a bit of sadness, since it meant his parting from James was all that much closer.

Wilson fed James several more brownies, and only once James stopped looking expectantly at the pan, finally full, did he push back from the table, rising to his feet and stretching. "Bedtime for me," he said firmly, and headed over to the stairs.

James covered the brownie pan and put them aside for later. "Want to watch a movie?" he asked James. "I have a bunch on DVD." James just watched him, uncomprehendingly. He changed the question to a statement. "We're watching a movie. Come on."

James followed him to the living room, and watched as Brock selected a movie and slid the disk into the machine. Choosing one turned out to be harder than he'd thought it would be, most of his collection being action and horror movies, neither of which he thought would be a wise subject choice at the moment. But he had a handful of more light-hearted movies, and threw in something with a young Tom Hanks in it that seemed innocuous enough, only remembering after he'd sat down on the couch that the only reason he'd ever purchased the extended edition DVD when he'd seen it on sale was that it was a movie he and James had seen in theatre together, one of the rare times they'd gone out on what was more or less a date. It lessened his enjoyment little, wondering if James would ever be able to remember that time.

James started off watching the movie with a more serious expression than the light-hearted comedy probably deserved, and at first seemed puzzled by the content, tilting his head and frowning slightly, but eventually seemed to recognize that the over-the-top plot was humorous, and by the end seemed to be enjoying it. He gave Brock an expectant look when it ended, much the same look he'd given the pan of brownies earlier.

"Want to watch another?" Brock asked, and had to smile at the hopeful look on James' face. "Why don't you choose another while I get us snacks and drinks?" he offered, gesturing at the shelves of DVDs. James stared at the colourful cases, biting his lip, then rose to his feet, looking dubiously at Brock as he took a step towards the shelves and then stopped. "It's all right, choose whatever you want," Brock urged him. "If you can't make up your mind, I'll help you when I get back." James walked the rest of the way over, staring at the cases and after a moment turning his head sideways to read the titles.

Brock left him to it, heading to the kitchen to make sandwiches for them – out of bread, cheese, and lunch meat that had all been taken out of the freezer earlier in the day – which he brought back along with a plate of more brownies and glasses of orange juice for them.

James was sitting cross-legged on the floor, several DVD cases scattered around him, frowning just slightly as he read the back of a case. "Found one you want to watch yet?" Brock asked. James looked up, then held out the one in his hand. "The Hunt for Red October?" Okay, so maybe he hadn't thought things through before offering James the option of choosing a movie on his own. Cold war era US-Soviet espionage might be a triggery subject matter, though he could hardly refuse now. He slipped it into the machine, then the two of them returned to the couch.

To his relief the movie went by without James doing anything more noteworthy then scowling and muttering to himself in Russian a number of times, and laughing in the middle of an otherwise serious scene, apparently because of some particularly badly mispronounced not-quite-Russian. Overall he seemed to enjoy it, and when Brock asked if he wanted to watch a third movie, nodded enthusiastically and headed over to select another DVD without further prompting.

* * *

The surface of the bed dipped, waking Sam up. He opened his eyes, then flinched backwards as he realized that the Winter Soldier was crouched on the bed right beside him, balancing on his toes with folded arms resting on his knees and looking down at him. "Jesus...!" he exclaimed, which drew a snort and an amused smile from the man; that alone was enough to calm his racing heart a little, since it wasn't the sort of expression that went along with something like a sudden urge to kill someone. At least e didn't think it did.

"You need something?" Sam asked quietly, rolling over onto his back and pushing himself into a more upright position against the cushions. The sound of a TV playing quietly could be heard from the living room below.

Barnes stared at him, chewing on his lower lip, then lowered his head, turning it a little so that he was looking sideways at Sam through the fall of his hair. "You were with _him_ on the helicarriers. Helping him."

"Steve? Yeah, I was helping him," Sam agreed.

"Steve," Barnes said slowly, as if trying out the name. Then, more emphatically, "_Steve._"

"Do you remember Steve?" Sam asked quietly.

"Sometimes," Barnes said. "A little."

"He's looking for you. Or at least, he was planning to," Sam said, and then when Barnes looked a little panicked at that, added in a softer tone. "He's your friend. He's worried about you; he wants to help you."

"He said that," Barnes said, metal hand reaching up to squeeze at him own right shoulder. "He said... he said..." He started trembling, then lowered his head, clamping his hands to either side of it, fingers digging into his scalp. "He _said_. Friends. Weapons don't have _friends_." And then something in Russian, which Sam couldn't even hope to guess the meaning of, though the tone sounded pretty anguished.

"You're a man, not a weapon. When he said he was your friend, he meant it," Sam said. "Steve Rogers is the most honest guy I've ever met. And on the rare occasion when he tries, well, he's a real crappy liar."

That startled a bark of laughter out of Barnes. He froze then, lifting his head to stare in the direction of the loft railing and the living room below, then when there was no change in sound from below, turned back to Sam, asking quietly. "Why are you helping the handler?"

"Rumlow? Because of you, and Steve. Steve would want me to help you in any way I could, so when Rumlow asked me to help him to rescue you from HYDRA, I could hardly turn him down. And even if neither of them were around, and I met you? I'd still try my best to help you anyway. It's kind of my thing, helping fellow soldiers."

Barnes looked surprised, and said something questioning in Russian, then stopped himself and asked again in English. "You were a soldier?"

"Sort of. 58th Pararescue. Most of the combat I saw was while I was getting wounded soldiers out of it. I suppose saying helping fellow military personnel would be a more accurate phrasing."

"Pararescue... I have heard of this, I think," Barnes said. "_These things we do, that others may live._"

Sam found himself grinning. "That's the motto, all right. Goes all the way back to the Korean and Vietnam Wars. After I got out, I went to work at the VA – the Department of Veteran's Affairs – as a counsellor. I help vets adjust to life back Stateside. Help them deal with all the adjustments and issues they face, whether social, medical, psychological, or whatever else. Finding housing, jobs, medical care, more specialized counselling if they need it, anything. So, you being a vet? You'd have my help, for as long as you needed and wanted it, no matter what your past was, or who your friends were. Or your enemies, for that matter."

Barnes looked directly at him then, tossing his hair back out of his eyes and just staring silently, and then finally nodded, slowly. "Okay."

"Okay. Good. What the hell time is it, anyway?" Sam asked, looking around to check the time on the clock-radio on the bedside table. "Crap. I hate stupid o-clock in the morning. You hungry? I think I saw bacon in the freezer and I _know_ there's boxes of pancake mix downstairs. We could make bacon and pancakes for breakfast."

Barnes nodded. The guy really was a bottomless pit for food, but having seen the way Cap ate while healing up, Sam wasn't entirely surprised. He rolled out of bed, scratching at his stomach, and pulled on his jeans and a clean tshirt, making note that he'd need to do a laundry soon, having only packed a couple days worth of clothing. He didn't bother with socks or shoes, seeing as Barnes wasn't wearing any either.

Rumlow was asleep on the couch, a DVD menu showing on the TV; something called 'Three Kings', which Sam hadn't bothered seeing since he wasn't a fan of George Clooney. Also, he'd had his own all-too-real desert war, he wasn't particularly interested in watching a fictionalized version of someone else's. "You guys finish off all the brownies?" he asked, spotting a plate dotted with dark crumbs on the coffee table before he turned away to head for the kitchen.

"Yes," Barnes agreed.

"Damn. I was looking forward to one with my morning coffee," he said, as he started up the machine, then headed down to the cellar to find the bacon. Barnes followed him down, rather to his surprise, and wandered around looking at the canned goods on the shelves. Sam dug around in the freezer for a moment, digging out the package he'd seen earlier – which turned out to the the top package of a whole stack of them – and saw that Barnes had stopped in front of one shelf, staring fixedly at the cans and bottles in front of him. "See something you want?"

Barnes didn't reply verbally, but he reached out and lightly touched a can, before snatching his hand back as if it had burned him. Sam walked over, looking to see what it was. A can of black cherries. "It's okay to want things," he told Barnes, and picked it up. "Come on, back upstairs," he said, making a shooing motion towards the steps. Barnes gave him an amused look. "Yeah, I know, there's no way I can make you go anywhere you don't want to. But you want breakfast, don't you?"

Barnes led the way back to the kitchen, where the coffee drip was making noises. As Sam put the bacon in the microwave to defrost, Barnes got out coffee mugs and set them on the counter by the machine, then stood and watched the water trickling into the filter. He was definitely showing a lot more independence and initiative, both of which were good signs for his eventual recovery from whatever HYDRA had done to him.

"So do you have a name you'd prefer I call you by? I've been thinking of you as 'Barnes', but I know Steve calls you 'Bucky' and Rumlow knew you as 'James'. You can call me Sam, by the way, or if that's too casual for you, Wilson will do. And while I'll answer to it if necessary, I'd prefer Sam to 'hey you'."

That made Barnes stare at him again, a blank expression on his face. And then he ducked his head, the smallest of smiles on his lips. "Barnes is okay. James too, I guess."

Sam grinned at him. "Great. Pleased to meet you, James."

Rumlow woke while they were busy frying pancakes, and came over to claim a mug of coffee for himself before disappearing into the washroom for a shower and shave.

James ate his pancakes with black cherries spooned over top, once Sam had given him the release words, while Sam drowned his own in real maple syrup from a tin. Rumlow, once he re-emerged from the bathroom, spread his with peanut butter, eating them with his fingers as if they were open-face sandwiches. James watched him curiously, and tried that with one of his own, then had one with both cherries and peanut butter on it, which resulted in cherry juice running down his arm since it couldn't soak into the pancake, making Sam laugh and Rumlow look amused, while James muttered curses in several different languages and resumed eating with knife and fork instead of fingers once he'd wiped up the mess.

Rumlow was just getting up from the table to fetch the coffee carafe when there was an odd sound from the loft, a series of shrill electronic tones, muted by distance and intervening material but still clearly audible. Sam froze as Rumlow and James both went for their weapons.


	5. Reunion

As soon as he got close to the top of the stairs, Brock could tell exactly where the sound was coming from. He stopped, and looked down to aim an accusing glare at Wilson. "It's your wings," he said.

"What? Shit... must be something Stark included that wasn't in the manual. Let me take a look."

James eeled past Brock, a couple of long strides taking him to where the wing pack sat on the floor in one corner of the loft. In one smooth movement he hefted it by the straps and slung it over the railing, dropping it neatly down to Wilson, then vaulted over the railing to drop down after it, landing beside Wilson and staring at the pack with about the same level of suspicion as Brock was feeling. Brock opted to take the stairs back down, coming to a stop by Wilson as he dug in one of the pockets, digging out a pair of earbuds, one of which was the source of the noise.

"What the hell," Sam said, looking and sounding perplexed enough that Brock decided maybe he hadn't purposefully betrayed them in some way after all. James seemed to have reached the same decision, putting away all of his weapons as he looked with interest at the earbuds resting in the palm of Wilson's hand.

"Oh, hey, there you are!" Tony Stark's voice sounded tinny and distorted from the volume it was being projected at in order to be audible. "I told Steve he was getting his panties in a twist over nothing. Well, probably over nothing. I hear you've been a baaaaaad wingman and forgot to bring Cap along for super crazy fun times."

"What are you talking about?" Wilson asked, looking concerned.

"Oh, I don't know... a solo attack on a HYDRA base somewhere in the vicinity of Indian Head ringing any bells? Except Steve says by the ballistics you _weren't_ actually solo, which kind of worries him even more, and then there's the issue of the recovered security camera footage of some room there with someone who is either the Winter Soldier or a dead ringer for him lurking in the corner for a day or three before taking out the camera. So. Steve's on his way to the current location of the wings, to either save your ass or give you a severe talking to or both, as necessary. You got anything you should be telling me at this point, Wilson?"

"Damn," Wilson said, then looked at James before turning to look at Brock, one eyebrow raising questioningly.

Brock wanted to swear, but also didn't want to speak aloud at all. He turned and took a couple of steps away while holstering his weapons and gathering his thoughts. God-damned Stark... Rogers on his way here... he turned back, staring at James for a moment, who looked calmly, almost passively back at him. And then Brock sighed, looked at Wilson and nodded while pointing at James, before pointing at himself and shaking his head.

Wilson understood that bit of theatre easily, and nodded back at him. "If you're asking whether I'm hanging out with an old friend of Steve's, the answer is yes. No, I'm not in need of any actual rescue or under any duress, and I'm thinking it would have been useful if Steve and I had ever discussed a safe word for shit like this since you have no way of knowing if I'm saying that because it's true or not. Also, what the hell Stark – tracking my wings? That's all kinds of a potential security risk for me if someone less friendly hacked in."

"Nah, the GPS and its tracking history can only be accessed by Jarvis, and the database uses an encryption algorithm that only he has the key to; even I couldn't crack it without the aid of another AI the equivalent of Jarvis and even then it'd likely take a few months to break it without the key. And that's _if_ I already knew your exact starting coordinates to make the first code in sequence easier to break. So, not exactly something anyone else can use in real time against you. My suits use the same system, that's how much I trust its security; Jarvis can find where I am or trace my path if he needs to, but no one else can."

"Unless they hack Jarvis."

Stark's laughter at that could be heard quite clearly. "After his last few upgrades, the only way Jarvis can be hacked any more is if whomever is trying it is someone he likes enough to basically hold open the doors for them. Which is like three people, one of whom is dead and the other two I'd trust with my life. And your life, obviously enough. Not to mention Cap's life. Speaking of the Capsicle, according to _his_ tracker, Steve is crossing the bridge at Benedict now – breaking a few speed limits there, naughty Cap – and should be with you shortly. Say, ten or fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty, I bet even he will need to slow down to a more reasonable clip once he's onto the side roads. Anyway, after all your fun and games down in Washington last week I have important anti-HYDRA things to be doing, and if you say you don't need rescue I'm going to assume until further notice that you actually don't need rescue, and get back to them. See you as soon as Cap drags you home to New York, which I'm assuming will be soon-ish. Laters!"

And the earbud went silent. The three of them stood there for a moment, staring at the earbuds. Brock wondered if they were really off now, or if Stark – or his AI – were listening in on them. Wilson apparently was following a similar chain of thought though, as his next action was to wrap them in a tea towel and stick them in the fridge, before leading the way to the far end of the room.

"You going to bail now?" were the first words out of his mouth.

"Don't think Rogers will be too happy to see me here," Brock agreed. "On the other hand if he's that close, he'll meet me on the road out, and I suspect he'll be in 'an ask questions later' mood.. Besides, I doubt you'd be too happy with me stealing your car anyway."

"This is going to be a real fun reunion for everyone then," Wilson said, and then turned to James.

"Barnes, you ready to meet him? Or do you want me to try and send him away? I'll tell you quite honestly, I don't think he'll leave very easily; he's been really worried about you, you know."

James wrapped his arms around himself, looking uncertain.

"He'll want to see you," Rumlow found himself agreeing quietly. "He won't hurt you."

* * *

James looked back and forth between the two, feeling unsettled. Part of him wanted his handler to stay with him, wanted to flee the approach of the man who called himself his _friend_. And part of him... part of him yearned to see him again. To maybe find out who he really was; a weapon, a person, James, Barnes, the asset, the Winter Soldier. Bucky, childhood friend? He had memories now that he was pretty sure were part of that last, and a lot of other memories that he didn't like to think of at all.

And newer memories, of the care these two men had given him, and memories somewhere in between, of someone he was certain was a young Brock Rumlow, a young man who'd called him James and given him a home, a young man almost nothing like the middle-aged one who was looking at him so expectantly now. Skinny and idealistic once, like Steve had been, but... but... not any more.

"You're part of HYDRA," he said to his handler, and found himself shivering. "You weren't, before..."

Rumlow's jaw set for a moment, as he went very still. "Yes," he finally said. "No fault of yours; it was a choice I made for myself, afterwards." Brock looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "I... might have made a few bad choices in my life, I think."

He swallowed, feeling hurt. "You're not taking me back to them," he said flatly; statement, not question.

"Never," Rumlow said fiercely, and looked at him again. "They don't _own_ you, James. This..." he paused, and gestured between himself and Sam. "This is all about getting you away from them; getting you back your freedom again. I can't get you all the help you're going to need; I wish I could. I still... I care about you. You're maybe the only person I can say that about. But I'm not a nice person, and I'm not the person you knew, and I'm definitely not the person you need. People like Rogers and Wilson... they can help you, if you let them. And I _do_ want that for you, even if it means I'm out of your life after this."

That hurt, somehow, and at the same time it was a huge relief. As happy as he'd been to see Rumlow walking down that hallway towards him... that hadn't really been him, or his feelings. That had been the Winter Soldier and his conditioning, glad to see his handler, not James glad to see Brock, because the James and Brock he remembered bits and pieces of didn't exist any more, and never would again; two intervening decades of changes had seen to that. He sucked in a deep breath of air, and looked at Wilson, at Sam, whom he _knew_ he could trust despite how short a time he'd known him; Steve had accepted Sam as a teammate, and if there was one thing the shredded remnants of Bucky knew, it was that Steve's judgement on teammates could be trusted.

"I guess I'm ready to see him," he said, even though he wasn't entirely sure he was.

Sam's smile was almost blinding.

* * *

At the sound of an approaching motorcycle, Sam turned to look at Rumlow, who'd settled himself in a seat with a bottle and a glass, all his weapons removed and piled up in clear sight on the kitchen counter. "You sure about this?"

Rumlow shrugged. "One thing I'm sure about Rogers; no matter how mad he may be at me, he's not going to kill an unarmed man who isn't making any hostile moves in his direction. I'm pretty sure I can survive his disapproval."

"All right," Sam said, then walked out onto the porch, James ghosting along at his back, also unarmed and looking antsy, like he was considering bolting off into the surrounding woods. Steve rode into view a moment later, pulling to a stop behind Sam's car. He just sat there for a long moment, staring at the two of them, looking shocked and disbelieving.

"Bucky?" he finally said, not moving from the bike.

Sam felt a tug on his clothes, and realized James had taken a grip on the back of his shirt; like a kid trying to hide behind his parent's leg, he found himself thinking. "Hey Steve," Sam said.

"Sam," Steve said, glancing at him for a moment, then finally knocked down the kickstand, rose and stepped away from the bike, his eyes once again glued on James. "_Bucky._" His voice cracked on the word. "Are you... can I come closer?"

Sam could feel James trembling, the movement transmitted through James' tight grip on his shirt. "He's your friend, even if you don't remember that very well," Sam murmured reassuringly. "And I'm here, too. If you want him to stay back, just..."

Then James drew a deep breath and released his shirt, taking a half-step forward to stand beside him. "Steve?" he said faintly, voice wavering, almost breaking as well.

Steve smiled. "Yeah," he said, took a step forward, and then stopped himself, biting his lip and clenching his hands. "_Please_ can I come closer?"

"Steve," James said, voice breaking, and Rogers crossed the remaining distance between them in three huge steps, flinging his arms around James. James had flinched into a defensive posture at his sudden approach, arms raised in front of him, but let them fold back against his chest as Steve enveloped him. "_Steve_," he said again, half a sob, and buried his face against Steve's shoulder, shaking with the combination of stress and emotion.

"_Bucky_," Steve said, his voice equally as choked. Sam bit his lip and looked away, trying to give them a little privacy without actually stepping away; not something he could do after having promised James that he'd stay with him.

It took the two men a couple of minutes to regain their composure. Steve recovered first, reaching out to catch at Sam's sleeve and get his attention. "Sam... _how_," he asked. Sam looked back, taking in how Steve still had one hand wrapped protectively around James' back, how James now had one arm draped around Steve's neck, his metal arm still folded up between them as if he was trying to hide it.

"It's a long story," Sam told him. "Come on inside. Though I'll warn you, you're not going to like all of it... or who also helped and is still here."

Steve narrowed his eyes a little. "Who?"

"Rumlow," Sam said, at the same time as James softly said "Brock."

Steve stiffened, scowling, then straightened a little, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. "Right. Okay. Yeah, not exactly overly enthused about the idea of seeing him again; we didn't exactly part on the best of terms. But..." he looked down at Bucky, and his expression softened. "If he helped Bucky, I suppose I can regard things as being at a truce between us, as long as he doesn't try anything else."

"Good," Sam said, then opened the door, stepping into the cottage and holding it open, gesturing for them to enter as well. "Come on in."

James pushed himself free of Steve and led the way inside, Steve following on his heels.

Brock was where they'd left him, slumped down in the armchair with a half-finished drink in hand. "Cap," he said quietly, lifting his glass a little as if to toast him.

"Rumlow," Steve said, voice cold.

"Take a load off," Rumlow said, gesturing at the remaining seating.

Steve looked around the room, taking in things like the weapons piled in the kitchen, then gave a tiny nod, and took off his shield to set it down beside the other armchair before dropping down into it himself. James took ahold of Sam's sleeve, and tugged, leading him over to the couch, and pulling him down to sit with him there. Sam went along easily, willing to continue being James' security blanket as long as it was necessary.

"So Sam says there's a long story about how you helped him to find Bucky?" Steve asked, voice still cold, but clearly willing to give Rumlow the benefit of the doubt for now.

* * *

Sam threw his duffle into the trunk, then turned to watch Steve and Brock.

"Leave her anywhere, Stark will see that she finds her way back to me," Steve was saying as he handed over the keys for his motorcycle. Steve was going with James in Sam's car, and as thanks for Rumlow's help in recovering Bucky was lending the bike to him. Sam was pretty sure that Brock would ditch it as soon as he reached somewhere that he could switch to a different vehicle; none of them had any idea how many tracking devices Stark had installed in it, nor how to disable them.

"Keep good care of him," Rumlow said, looking over to where James was standing beside the car, arms folded and looking uneasy. As more memories of his time in HYDRA's hands had returned, he'd withdrawn from Rumlow, whatever favourable memories he might have of their time together not being enough to overcome his hatred of the organization that Rumlow had willingly become a part of.

"That I can guarantee," Steve said, glancing over at Bucky as well, then turned back and held out one hand. "Personal or not... thank you for what you did for him."

Rumlow smiled, more a grim show of teeth than a real smile, but shook Steve's hand anyway. "Sure. Wilson... thanks for all the help," he said, turning and holding a hand out in Sam's direction.

Sam nodded, stepping forward to shake it. "It's been an adventure," he said. "Not one I'm hoping to ever repeat, mind you. Look after yourself."

Rumlow made a face at that, then looked in Jame's direction for a long moment, James staring back in silence, face blank. "Good luck, James," he finally said, and turned away to mount the motorcycles.

"Brock," James suddenly said, taking a couple steps in his direction. Rumlow froze, then looked questioningly at him. "Try making better choices for a while. If you find that you can, then come look me up some time. Okay?"

Rumlow smiled, a real smile this time. "No promises, but I'll see what I can do," he agreed, then started the motorcycle and drove away. They stood and watched until he disappeared out of sight around the nearest curve, then the three moved toward the car, James immediately claiming the back seat, since he still preferred having people where he could see them.

"Feel like heading straight to New York, or do you have things to finish up in Washington still?" Steve asked, as he opened the passenger side door.

Sam looked back at him over the roof of the car, and shrugged. "All the important things are already taken care of. I'm game for New York if the two of you are."

Steve grinned, and slid into the seat. "Ready to go home, Bucky?"

There was silence from the back seat at first. Sam watched in the rear-view mirrow, and saw James nod. "Sure," Bucky said. "Home might be good."


End file.
